


Nothing Without You

by fatedtopretend



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anxiety, Blood and Violence, M/M, Panic Attacks, Period Typical Attitudes, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Bucky Barnes, Slow Burn, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2019-03-30 12:37:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 79,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13951710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatedtopretend/pseuds/fatedtopretend
Summary: Underneath the official story of Captain America and his childhood best friend Bucky Barnes is another story, one shared only between two Brooklyn Boys and seen in glimpses by those around them. A story of love and trust, of good days and bad. A story of trying to survive together in a world determined to beat them down.This is not that story. Go a little deeper and you’ll find an even less known story. One of secrets and lies and impossible choices. Trying to do what’s right is never easy, just ask Steve Rogers. Knowing what’s right can be even harder, and that one’s all on Bucky.





	1. 1927

**October 1927 - (10 years old)**

James yawned wide and listlessly forked a bit of egg. He was alone at the table. Everyone else had already finished and left. The only reason his Ma hadn’t started yelling at him yet was because she hadn’t noticed he was still there. She was busy with his sisters. Baby Eva was crying, Anne was fighting to get away from their Ma like she was about to be skinned instead of forced into a dress, and Becca was tearing the house apart looking for her jacket.

James poked at the rest of his eggs and sighed. They were cold now and even more unappealing than earlier. He hated eggs. They were his least favorite breakfast food by far, but his Ma made them all the time anyway because she secretly hated him and wanted him to suffer. She _said_ it was because they were both healthy and quick to cook, but he could think of a hundred other foods that fit that description. She just enjoyed ruining his mornings, as if they weren’t miserable enough already.

“James, are you still not done eating?” Winifred called from the living room, sounding more than a little disapproving.

James slumped deeper into his chair, like that would magically turn him invisible. Maybe if he kept sliding down until he was all the way under the table she’d forget he was there? Out of sight, out of mind?

“Stop dawdling, James,” his Ma scolded. “Either finish eating or help Becca.”

James took one glance at his cold, rubbery eggs and pushed his chair back. “Where’ve you looked?” he asked Becca, who glared at him.

“Everywhere,” Becca insisted, flinging her arms out.

James eyed the cushions she’d pulled off the couch and scattered across the floor. Clearly, her jacket hadn’t been _inside_ the couch. “Bathroom?” he suggested.

“Why would it be in the bathroom?” she asked, looking grumpy, but spun around and went to check.

James shuffled over to lean against the wall and yawned, wishing school didn’t start so early. He let his eyes drift shut only to fling them open a moment later when he realized the crying was getting louder.

“Can you hold Eva for a minute?” Winifred asked, hurrying toward him. Without pausing to wait for an answer, she dropped the baby into his arms and turned around to chase down Anne.

James blinked down at Eva, who’d stopped crying in favor of staring at him. “Hi,” he smiled at the baby, hoping to distract her enough that she forgot what she’d been crying about. She usually liked him. Unless she was hungry and then she hated everyone except Ma, but he was pretty sure she’d already been fed.

Eva screwed her face up and started to wail. James’s stomach sank as he quickly moved to comfort her, first by rocking, then bouncing, before he finally settled for pacing around the living room. None of it helped. He circled the room anxiously, hoping his Ma finished up whatever she was doing soon.

Eva just kept on wailing.

“Come on,” James complained, frowning down at her. “You’re giving me a headache.”

He moved to poke her in the nose because that almost always made her laugh (Anne used to _hate_ it), but all she did was cry louder and grab his hand. And bite him. Hard.

James yelped. “Ow!”

Eva grinned up at him, gurgling happily as she chewed on his fingers.

“Seriously?” James asked her.

Eva just stared at him, face red and splotchy from crying, and continued chewing on his fingers hard enough that it actually kind of hurt. His other arm was starting to ache too - he usually held her with both arms, not just one. But he had a feeling the second he pulled his hand away she was going to start screaming again, so he let it happen.

He hated crying babies and they were a thousand times worse when he was the one holding them. His Ma always said that sometimes they just needed to cry, but he always felt like he was doing something wrong.

“I think she’s growing a tooth,” he told his Ma as soon as he spotted her coming down the stairs, Anne and Becca trailing behind her.

“Already?” Winifred asked. “She’s barely four months.”

James shrugged. He had no idea when babies were supposed to grow teeth, but he remembered how Anne wouldn’t stop crying every time she got one of hers, and she was always chewing on stuff.

“Well,” Winifred said, reaching out to take Eva from him. She whined when James’s hand left her mouth, but didn’t start crying again. “Becca got her first tooth at five months, so I suppose it isn’t that early.”

“What about me?” James asked, curious. He grimaced as he wiped the drool off his hand onto his pants.

Winifred smiled at him and said, “You didn’t get your first tooth until almost eleven months. We were starting to think you’d never get any at all.”

Becca snickered and James turned to glare at her. “But I walked first!” he defended.

“Ran,” Winifred corrected, and James felt his face flush. His Ma loved to tell everyone this story and he regretted bringing it up. “Nine months old. You couldn’t walk more than three steps, but every time you started to fall you’d take off running instead. We were scared to take you out of the house because people would’ve thought we were hitting you, you had so many bruises.” She shook her head. “I’d take my eyes off of you for one second and you’d run headfirst into the wall.”

“Maybe that’s why he didn’t have teeth,” Becca said, looking gleeful. “’Cause he would’a knocked ‘em out.”

James made a face at her, but couldn’t retaliate with their Ma standing right there. “We’re gonna be late,” he said instead, and felt a little satisfied at the mildly panicked look that crossed Becca’s face. She hated being late.

“Then let’s go,” Becca said, backing toward the front door.

“Hold on,” James said. He walked deliberately slowly toward his shoes. “I’m not ready yet.”

Becca scowled at him and opened her mouth, probably to call him something mean, but James darted his eyes toward their Ma and she snapped it shut. “Hurry up,” she gritted out instead.

James grinned at her and crouched down to tie his shoes. He did it in slow-motion at first until Becca got frustrated and turned away, then sped up because he didn’t actually want to be late. “Okay,” he said when he finished, straightening up.

“Do you have your lunch money?” Winifred asked.

“No,” James said. He darted into the kitchen to grab the coins off the table. “Thanks, Ma.”

“And your cap?”

James spun on his heels and ran back into the kitchen to snag his hat off the table. “Thanks, Ma,” he repeated, a little less graciously the second time.

“Be good,” Winifred said as they stepped out the door, like she always did.

“I’m always good,” James said, and jogged down the front steps before anybody could contradict him. He was _almost_ always good.

“So where’s _your_ jacket?” Becca asked pointedly as soon as they reached the sidewalk.

“I don’t need it,” James said. “It’s not cold enough.”

“Is too.”

“Is not,” James argued. “I’m bigger than you. And I’m a boy. I don’t get cold as easily.”

“Liar,” Becca said, and shoved him.

Caught off guard, James stumbled and almost fell. As soon as he regained his balance, he shoved her back. The rule about not hitting girls didn’t count for sisters, he’d decided a long time ago. And Becca wasn’t some frail little sissy girl who couldn’t take a hit. He swore she punched harder than half the boys in his class and she was two years younger than them. The only time she cried after he pushed her was when she was trying to get him in trouble. It always worked, too, because boys weren’t supposed to hit girls no matter what.

Becca moved to shove him again, but James danced away and stuck his tongue out at her. “You’re gonna make us late,” he taunted when she lunged at him again. He laughed as he jumped out of the way.

“I hate you!” Becca snapped, spinning around to start walking again.

“I was just teasing,” James said, skipping a few steps to catch up with her.

“I know,” Becca said. Then she punched him in the arm before he could react. “So am I.”

James glared at her, rubbing his arm, but knew if he did anything back they’d end up fighting the whole way to school and it was too early to put in all that effort. And too cold. The wind was whipping straight through his shirt and the only reason he wasn’t shivering was because he refused to give Becca the satisfaction of being right.

Truth was, his coat was too small. Way too small. The sleeves were about two inches too short and that was when he wasn’t stretching his arms out. He hadn’t told his Ma yet because he’d heard her and his Dad talking about money late at night when they thought he was sleeping. They were worried about paying for heating over the winter because babies were expensive. He knew he couldn’t get away with it for much longer, but he was hoping no one noticed until after his dad’s next payday. That would make everything easier.

Two blocks of semi-peaceful silence later, and a high-pitched yell made James nearly leap out of his skin. He flung an arm out to stop Becca in her tracks and scanned the area warily.

“Leave me alone!” the same voice yelled a second later.

The alley a few feet ahead and to their right, James identified. He measured the distance from the building they were standing next to and the one on the other side of the alley and wondered if whoever was in there would notice them passing. Probably not, but he didn’t like taking the risk. His Ma would kill him if Becca got hurt. He was supposed to protect her.

Silently, James gestured for Becca to stay where she was and crept forward to peek into the alley. He was relieved to see that the oldest kid in there couldn’t be more than a year or two older than him (if it’d been adults, he would’ve doubled back and went around the next block), but that didn’t mean he liked what he was seeing.

Two bigger kids were crowded around a tiny blond boy, whose face was red and angry. He must’ve been the one that yelled.

“Just give us the money, runt,” the tallest boy demanded. He was what James’s Ma called ‘big-boned’, with short brown hair and round, chubby cheeks. He reminded James of one of those dogs with the squashed faces.

Bobby Adams, that was his name. He was a grade above James and a few inches taller than him, which meant he was over a head taller than the blond-haired boy. James squinted at the other bully, who was about an inch shorter than Bobby Adams and a lot skinnier, but he couldn’t remember his name. He looked familiar though. James was just bad at remembering names.

“No!” the blond boy said firmly, raising his fists like he was going to fight them. “It’s not right to steal people’s money. It’s mine and I need it to buy lunch. You’re being a bully.”

James’s eyebrows went up. The kid looked like a stiff breeze would knock him over. He was scrawny, all skin and bones, and so pale he almost looked sickly. He didn’t stand a chance against the bullies, and yet he had the gall to lecture them?

James didn’t think he’d ever be that brave. Or that dumb.

“Do you _want_ to get punched?” Nameless Kid asked, sounding just as incredulous as James felt. “Just give us the money.”

“No.”

Shaking his head, James backed up and nearly stepped on top of Becca, who’d crept up behind him to listen in. He glared at her - he’d told her to _stay put_ \- but she just rolled her eyes at him.

James poked her in the stomach to force her back a few steps, to a distance they wouldn’t be heard from.

“What are you going to do?” Becca asked, keeping her voice low.

“Nothing,” James said, although even as he said it he could feel himself wavering. He’d ignored bullies before, but he’d never run into them when Becca was with him. Now he couldn’t help but picture her in the blond boy’s place. He’d want someone to help her if she was being bullied. Did the blond boy have an older brother to make the bullies back off?

Becca frowned at him.

James hesitated, biting his lip, before caving to the disapproving look on Becca’s face. “Okay, fine. Go on ahead.” He waved her towards the school.

To his surprise, Becca’s frown deepened. “You’re not supposed to fight.”

“They’re going to hurt him,” he said, a little confused. Didn’t she want him to help?

“You’re going to fight them?” Becca asked.

“Uh,” James hesitated, unsure now what answer she was looking for. “Yes? No? Look, I’ll meet you at school, okay?”

“You’re not supposed to fight,” Becca repeated, narrowing her eyes.

“I won’t.”

“Then why do I have to go ahead?”

“Can’t you just do what I say?” James asked, frustrated.

“No,” Becca said, giving him a look that said he was being stupid. Which he probably was, but _she_ was being annoying.

It wasn’t that he wanted to fight anyone, but now that he’d decided to help it felt wrong to just change his mind and walk away. He couldn’t abandon the blond boy after comparing him to Becca in his head. He was even smaller than Becca and any second now they were going to stop arguing and move on to the hitting.

“Next time Ma gives me a nickel, I’ll give it to you,” James said impulsively, wanting to hurry this up.

Becca looked startled, but said, “Okay.”

“Okay?” James confirmed. “Then go,” he waved her off. “It’s only two blocks.”

Becca hesitated a second longer, then turned and darted past the alley. She glanced back then, and James gestured again for her to go. He waited until she started walking before turning his attention toward the alley.

He peeked around the corner just in time to watch the blond boy get punched hard in the stomach. He doubled over with a wheezy grunt and James threw himself around the corner without thinking.

“Hey!” James yelled, then froze when everyone turned to stare at him. “Leave him alone,” he continued. He meant to sound intimidating, but his words came out almost questioning.

“Barnes,” Bobby Adams said, looking like he couldn’t decide if he should be amused or irritated. “What do you want? This ain’t got nothing to do with you.”

“Yeah!” Nameless Kid added. “Mind your own business!”

The blond kid just glared at him like James had barged in unwanted on his private alleyway get-together.

James took a tiny step back, feeling uncertain. Did the boy not want help? But why would he not want help? He knew he hadn’t misunderstood the situation. He couldn’t have. He’d watched the kid get punched in the stomach, for Christ’s sake.

For an awkward few seconds, everyone just stood there. James’s presence added an unknown element to the situation and nobody knew what he was going to do ( _he_ didn’t even know, so how could anybody else?).

“Get outta here,” Bobby Adams finally said to James. “Or I’ll take your lunch money too.”

“Try it,” James challenged, and immediately regretted it. They might actually do it. He glanced at the blond boy again, but he was still glaring at everybody, including James.

_Run, you dummy,_ James thought at him, but it looked like running was the last thing on the boy’s mind. He looked more like he was contemplating jumping on Bobby Adams while James had him distracted.

Bobby Adams exchanged a glance with his friend and for a second James optimistically thought they might give up and leave. Then Bobby Adams looked at him and grinned and James thought, _uh oh._

“Come on, Barnes,” Bobby Adams taunted. “Everybody knows what a goody-goody you are.”

“Momma’s boy,” Nameless Kid added, smirking.

“You’re not gonna fight us. You might get in _trouble._ ”

“Hey,” Blond Boy piped up. “Leave him alone!”

James shot the kid a glare, knowing he was just trying to help but hating it anyway. This was going all wrong. _He_ was supposed to be the one doing the rescuing, not the other way around!

“I think you’re just beatin’ your gums,” James said, turning his attention back to the bullies. “You’re scared to fight someone who might beat you, so you pick on little kids half your size.”

“I’m not little!” Blond Boy burst out. Everyone ignored him.

“What do you care anyway?” Bobby Adams asked. “It’s just Rogers.”

“I care ‘cause you’re a bully,” James said. It was the best he could come up with considering he wasn’t sure himself.

Bobby Adams snorted. “You sound like Rogers. No wonder you like him so much. You two should kiss.”

Rogers apparently didn’t like that so much. Either that or he was tired of waiting and wanted to skip to the fighting (going by the look on his face, James wouldn’t put it past him), but before James could even start thinking of a response Rogers leapt forward and crashed into Bobby Adams.

James was impressed for all of one second. Then Nameless Kid grabbed the blond boy’s arm and yanked him away from Bobby Adams before he could do much of anything. Rogers yelled and struggled, but couldn’t break out of the hold.

It was unfair, James thought, watching them. He felt like Rogers should get some points for determination or spirit, but in the end all that mattered was his strength. Or rather, his lack of any sort of muscles at all.

Then Bobby Adams pulled an arm back and punched Rogers square in the face. James, feeling like someone had stuck gum to the bottoms of his shoes and glued him in place, felt his stomach lurch in horror as the blond boy’s head snapped back.

_Do something,_ he told himself, feeling strangely distant, almost like he was dreaming. He didn’t move.

Rogers slumped in Nameless Kid’s hold, looking dazed for a long moment before he shook his head a little and raised his fists as much as he could in the position he was in.

The sheer ridiculousness of that finally snapped James into motion. He lunged forward and shoved Bobby Adams, grinning as the larger boy staggered and fell to his hands and knees.

“How d’ya like that?” James taunted.

Pleased with himself, he turned to confront Nameless Kid, hoping to free Rogers from his hold before he got anymore hurt, but he hadn’t counted on the other bully being ready for him. He’d already tossed Rogers to the side, and the second James turned toward him he got punched in the face.

The pain was like a little explosion centered around his nose. He stumbled back, blind to his surroundings, and crumpled to the ground. His hands flew up to cup his nose and registered _warm_ and _wet,_ and when he pulled them back they were coated in red.

Blood. He was bleeding. He could feel it running down his face, across his lips, his chin. Some of it got into his mouth, warm and metallic, and he almost gagged. There was just _so much_ of it. Too much. He didn’t think he’d ever had a bloody nose this bad. He felt shaky and panicked and he wanted to run home to his Ma.

He staggered to his feet, prepared to do exactly that, but before he took a single step a flash of movement caught his eyes. Rogers was curled up on the ground facing the wall, his legs pulled to his chest and his arms thrown over his head. Bobby Adams and Nameless Kid were looming over him and Bobby Adams was pulling his leg back to wind up for a kick.

James threw himself forward, madder than he’d ever been in his life. (Also more terrified, but he pushed that aside in favor of the anger). Who kicks someone when they’re already down? When they didn’t stand a chance in the first place? That wasn’t just wrong, it was cruel.

James tackled Bobby Adams to the ground and slammed a fist into his nose before he could react. He felt himself grin as the older boy cried out, and punched him again for good measure. He wanted the bully to know what it felt like to be on the losing side. He wanted to-

James yelped as he was shoved to the side, off of Bobby Adams and almost into the wall. Then Nameless Kid was on him and Bobby Adams was getting up and suddenly all that terror he’d been pushing down surged up and overwhelmed him.

All he could do was react. He didn’t have time to think about how he had no idea what he was doing. How he’d never really punched anyone other than Becca and a few of his friends, and those hadn’t been real punches. How he’d never fought someone with the intention of hurting them, or with someone who was doing their best to hurt him in return.

Fighting for real wasn’t anything like he’d thought it would be. It was a blur of panic and anger and lashing out, of half-felt pain and the taste of blood in his mouth. He fought wildly and despite it being two against one (Rogers didn’t join in) and being younger and smaller and completely inexperienced, James was the one who landed most of the blows.

And then the bullies were running away.

James stared after them, panting and shaking and disoriented, and wondered if he was supposed to be chasing them. Before he could think too hard on it, the sound of a wheezy cough caught his attention.

James whirled around and stared at Rogers. He was sitting on the ground propped up against the wall of one of the buildings. His face was red, his mouth slightly open, and he looked like he was struggling to breathe. That wasn’t good. That was bad. Real bad.

James felt his chest clench and his heart, already pounding, started to race. The rush of blood in his ears grew muffled and his legs suddenly felt like noodles. He dropped to his knees in front of Rogers before he could embarrass himself by falling.

“What’s wrong?” James demanded. “Did they- Are you hurt? What should I- do you need help? Should I go get help?”

Rogers stared at him wordlessly, eyes wide with fear. His breath was coming in short, wheezing gasps interspersed with little choked coughs. James wanted to clap his hands over his ears and pretend nothing was happening. He wanted to run away, to run home. He wanted an adult who knew what to do to show up and help.

But there were no adults here, just James and the scrawny little blond boy, all skin and bones and so, so pale.

“I’m- I’ll get help,” James said, mind racing. Home was too far. School was less far, but it would still take a few minutes to get there and back. There were houses and apartments right outside the alley, but what if no one was home? What if they didn’t know what to do or didn’t have a phone or-

James started to stand, but Rogers grabbed his arm and squeezed it so tight he could almost feel the bruise forming.

“I-” James forced himself to look at Rogers again. Nothing had changed. He was still struggling with every breath. James jerked his eyes away and stared at the brick wall instead. “I need to get help,” he said shakily, not sure if he was arguing with Rogers or trying to remind himself that he couldn’t just curl up and cry.

Rogers tugged at his arm and shook his head when James glanced at him.

“No?” James was confused. “You don’t want help?”

Rogers shook his head again and coughed a few times.

“But you-” James clenched his teeth against a wave of panic. “You can’t breathe. That- that’s bad.”

Rogers yanked at his arm so hard that James fell from his crouch. He landed on his hands and knees and automatically shifted to a seated position, too scared to be mad.

“Breathe,” Rogers wheezed.

“Yes!” James said. “Breathe. You need to breathe. Breathing is important. I should go get help.”

Rogers shook his head again, and for a second James was more frustrated than afraid.

“You,” Rogers wheezed. “Breathe.”

James stared at him, abruptly aware of how fast and shallow his own breathing was. “Are you telling me to calm down?”

Rogers nodded, looking pleased.

James wanted to punch him in the face. “You-” he cut himself off with a frustrated sound. “Does that mean- Are you okay?” He wouldn’t be telling James to calm down if he was dying, would he?”

Rogers closed his eyes for a second, then opened them and nodded. “Ma says,” he sucked in a wheezy inhale. “…got asthma.”

“Asthma,” James repeated. He didn’t think he’d ever heard that word before and he definitely didn’t know what it meant. “So you’re not gonna die?” he asked. It was only after he said it that he realized what a horrible question it was.

Rogers didn’t seem bothered. He spent a few seconds looking contemplative, then shook his head.

The fact that he had to think about it did not give James much confidence in his answer, but he was fairly certain Rogers was breathing a little better now than he had been a few minutes ago. So he probably wasn’t actively dying right this second.

But how often did he have trouble breathing for him to be so calm about it? Not that he’d really been calm when James first spotted him - he’d looked pretty terrified for the first minute or so - but now he was acting like this was something normal.

James opened his mouth to ask, then closed it. His Ma would slap him silly if he asked two rude questions back-to-back. He shuffled over to the side to lean against the wall next to Rogers instead. He wanted to crawl back into bed and not get up again until tomorrow.

He swiped at his nose, which felt itchy, and then stared down at his hand. It was splotched red with blood. Some of it was dark, dried and peeling off, but other parts were still bright and wet. Remembering the bloody nose, he looked down and grimaced at the dark stain covering the front of his nice blue shirt. He wished he had a mirror to see what his face looked like, and then was glad he didn’t.

After a moment, he warily lifted a hand to gently poke at the bone of his nose. It hurt, but he didn’t think it felt broken. Not that he knew what that felt like. He rubbed at his upper lip and felt blood flake off. At least it wasn’t still bleeding?

“Is fighting always like that?” he asked out loud, not really expecting an answer.

“Usually… they just,” Rogers wheezed, “hit me a few times… an’ take my money.”

James frowned at him. “How often does that happen?” He’d been assuming this was a one-time thing, not an all-the-time thing.

Rogers just shrugged.

James eyed him, not sure if he was trying to catch his breath from all the talking or avoiding the question. He suspected it was most likely the latter. “Why doesn’t anyone stop them?”

He felt guilty when he remembered how close he’d come to just walking past. It wouldn’t have been the first time he ignored something similar either. What if one of those times he’d walked past Rogers? Not wanting to be late to school wasn’t a good-

James’s eyes went wide. “School!” he blurted out. “We’re late. We gotta go.”

He scrambled to get up, but Rogers tightened his grip on his wrist. James looked over at him, prepared to argue, but Rogers just stared pointedly at James’s chest. His shirt, to be specific. His shirt with the giant bloodstain right down the center.

“My Ma’s going to _kill_ me,” James groaned, giving up and flopping back down. Late for school, fighting, ruining one of his best shirts… and his pants. He was in so much trouble.

“My Ma’s home,” Rogers wheezed, slowly moving to stand. He didn’t let go of James’s arm. “Working nights,” he said. “Let’s go there. She can… call the school.”

James frowned and stood as one with Rogers, deliberately keeping his arm stiff to take some of the smaller boy’s weight. He wondered how old he was. He was lighter than Becca and a little shorter and skinnier, but he didn’t act like he was younger than her.

“Can you even walk?” James asked, focusing on the important questions.

Rogers glared at him. “Yes.”

James was skeptical, but shifted closer to him instead of arguing. They couldn’t sit in the alley forever anyway. He thought about insisting they go to his house instead because he really wanted to see his Ma even if she yelled at him, but the blond boy’s Ma would probably know more about the breathing thing. The wheezing was scary and it wasn’t going away fast enough.

“How far?” James asked.

“Three blocks.”

That wasn’t far. It was actually two blocks closer than his own house. They could make it.

Maybe.

Three blocks was a lot longer than it sounded, especially when half-carrying someone who still wasn’t breathing right. James started to panic a little when the smaller boy’s breath started to almost whistle in his throat, and he wanted to ask to take a break, but the stubborn look on Rogers’s face kept his mouth shut.

He spent the last half block praying that the other boy’s legs didn’t give out, because he didn’t think he could carry him very far. He might not weigh as much as Becca, but he wasn’t weightless.

“Here,” Rogers finally wheezed, pointing at what had to be the oldest tenement building on the block.

James eyed it dubiously, but didn’t hesitate to start dragging the blond boy up the stairs. One of the boards creaked so loud when he stepped on it he was afraid it was about to snap, but it didn’t and he kept going.

He was never going to complain about the rowhouse he lived in ever again.

Rogers knocked lightly on his door when they reached it. James pounded on it and refused to feel bad when Rogers glared at him. He was too impatient at the idea of finally reaching an adult who knew what to do.

When the door swung open to reveal a tired-looking blond lady, James carefully shoved Rogers forward.

“Steve,” she said, her eyes going wide and darting between her son and James.

“Hi, Ma,” Rogers wheezed sheepishly.

Her lips pursed and she almost looked like she was about to yell, but all she did was sigh. “Come on,” she reached forward to gently pull Rogers inside. “You too,” she added, glancing back at James.

James cautiously stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Scanning the room - a kitchen - he found himself pleasantly surprised and a little relieved. As mean as it sounded, he’d been expecting it to be a little more… well, dirty. To be fair, the outside of the building was definitely not nice to look at and the stairwell was dirty and creaky and smelled funny. And his Dad was always complaining about the type of people who lived in tenements.

It wasn’t that bad, though. The kitchen was connected to the living room and the whole place was tiny and cramped, but it was all neat and clean. It still smelled kind of funny, but it wasn’t as bad in here as it’d been in the hallway.

He watched as Mrs. Rogers sat her son down at the little wooden table in the kitchen and started making coffee. Something in his chest seemed to unclench when he saw how not worried she was. Not that she wasn’t concerned - she definitely was - but she wasn’t panicking about the wheezing like she would be if it was something really bad. She was acting more like his own Ma did last year when he tried to balance on top of a fence and fell and scraped his knee up when he landed on a rock. It bled everywhere and he still had a scar, but it hadn’t been as bad as it looked.

James froze when she turned and stared at him intently. “Sit down,” she ordered, then paused.

“James,” he said, obediently moving to sit in the chair next to Rogers. “James Barnes, Ma’am.”

“James,” she repeated, smiling a little. “Can you tell me what happened?” She glanced at Rogers, who was still wheezing but had his eyes closed now. “I don’t think Steve’s going to be up to talking for awhile.”

“Uh,” James glanced at Rogers - Steve, according to his mother - but he didn’t open his eyes to give James any kind of hint about what to say. Would Mrs. Rogers be mad about the fighting? “Well, I was walking to school with Becca, my sister, when we heard somebody yell.” He paused, glancing at Steve again.

“Go on,” Mrs. Rogers said.

James stared down at the table as he told the rest of the story. The basics, at least. He skipped over most of the details of the fight because he barely remembered them himself, but he covered all the important parts. An uncomfortable silence fell when he stopped, and he worried that Mrs. Rogers was mad at him.

“Thank you for telling me,” she said after a moment, then stood up and turned to the counter to pour a cup of the coffee she’d made. To his surprise, she set the cup down in front of Steve and ruffled his hair. “Come on, Steve. Eyes open.”

Steve opened his eyes and made a face when he saw the cup, but didn’t argue. He picked it up and started sipping it.

“Coffee?” James couldn’t help but ask. His Ma wouldn’t let him have any; she said it was an adult drink. He didn’t really mind. He’d tasted it once when she wasn’t looking and it was disgusting. He understood the grimace on Steve’s face a hundred percent.

“It helps,” Mrs. Rogers said. She walked over to the sink. “We have medicine, but it’s expensive and I’d rather save it for when we really need it. Most of the attacks stop on their own.”

“Oh,” James said, not sure what else he was supposed to say. He froze a little when she started walking toward him with an intent look on her face, but all she did was gently grab his chin and start wiping his face off with a wet cloth. The blood, he remembered. No wonder she kept looking at him funny.

“It’s not broken,” she told him after gently checking out his nose. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if you get a black eye or two. Are you hurt anywhere else?”

James thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. He was definitely going to have a few bruises, but his nose was the worst of it.

“Steve?” she asked, turning her eyes on her son.

Steve shrank down a little in his chair and shook his head. “I’m fine,” he said. James was relieved to see he was breathing almost normally now.

“He got hit in the face once,” James said, remembering the horror of watching Steve’s head snap back. He winced a little when Steve glared at him, but didn’t regret tattling on him. He liked Steve’s Ma. She was nice.

Mrs. Rogers frowned at Steve and moved to crouch down next to his chair and run a thumb over the red spot on his cheekbone. “That’s going to leave a mark.”

Steve scowled and jerked his head away. “I’m fine.”

Mrs. Rogers sighed and stood. “I’ll go use the phone downstairs to call the school and let them know you won’t be in today.” She looked to James with a question in her eyes.

“I can walk home,” he said, getting to his feet. “It’s only a few blocks.”

As nice as Mrs. Rogers was, he was eager to get home. He didn’t even care about the lecture his Ma was surely going to give him. The pain from his nose was giving him a headache and he was starting to feel all the bruises he was going to have. He wanted to go home.

“If you’re sure,” Mrs. Rogers said, looking a little uncertain.

James nodded. “My Ma’s going to be worried if the school calls and says I’m not there.”

Normally, he wouldn’t have to worry about that at all. While the school was technically supposed to call home when kids didn’t show up - it was meant to stop them from skipping - they almost never did. A lot of parents didn’t have phones anyway.

The problem was, he’d told Becca he’d meet her at school and she knew exactly what he’d been walking into. She would’ve had to rush to her class to get there on time, but when she didn’t see him at lunch and realized he hadn’t shown up to school at all? More likely than not, she’d tell a teacher what happened this morning. And then they’d call his Ma.

He needed to be home before that happened so his Ma didn’t have a heart attack thinking he was missing. With his luck, she’d alert all her friends and have half the neighborhood combing the streets for him, thinking he was lying dead in an alley somewhere. He didn’t even want to know what the punishment for that would be when he turned out to be (mostly) fine.

Mrs. Rogers nodded. “Well, you’re welcome to visit anytime. Thank you for helping my son today.” She glanced at Steve and smiled a little. “Steve is very good at getting himself into trouble and not so good at getting himself out of it. It’s nice to know someone was watching his back.”

“Ma!” Steve protested, his face flushing red.

James grinned as he started inching towards the door. “I’ll see you around?” he said to Steve.

Steve nodded, but didn’t quite meet his eyes. The tips of his ears were still red. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’ll see you.”

“Hold up,” Mrs. Rogers said. “I can’t let you go out looking like that. I’ll find a shirt you can borrow. We have some hand-me-downs from a neighbor that Steve hasn’t grown into yet.”

James glanced down at his shirt and grimaced. His Ma was going to kill him.

 

*****

 

Two days later, James was an equal mixture of confused and frustrated. Steve was avoiding him and he didn’t know why. He’d tried to say hello four separate times now, but as soon as Steve caught sight of him he’d duck around a corner or into a classroom.

He didn’t understand what he did wrong. Sure, Steve hadn’t exactly welcomed his help in the alley, but he thought they’d been on good terms by the end of it. When he left Steve’s place, he even thought they were almost sort of friends. Or that they could be friends.

Now he was wondering if maybe he’d misread something somewhere. Maybe Steve only acted friendly because he needed help getting home, and then because he didn’t want to be rude in front of his Ma.

But even if that was true, was it really necessary to run from him like he had the plague?

All he wanted to do was say hello, maybe ask a few questions. Like if the bullies were still bothering him. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if they _were_ bothering him, but he wanted to know. Originally, he’d also wanted to ask Steve how old he was and if he went to the same school as James, but he’d figured that one out on his own. Steve obviously did go to his school, and to James’s surprise he was in the class below him. Mr. Collins class. Which meant he was somehow only a year younger than him.

Now James wanted to ask why he’d never seen Steve before. Had he just moved here? If so, he’d picked up the Brooklyn accent insanely fast. Unless he’d only moved from one side of Brooklyn to the other? His Ma had an irish accent, although not a very strong one, so she’d probably been here at least a few years. Was Steve’s dad also irish? What did he do? Steve said his Ma worked nights, but where did she work? He’d never heard of a woman working nights before.

And why was Steve so small and pale? Was it because of the asthma? What was asthma? Had he been born with it or was it some kind of illness? Would it go away? And how could he stand up in front of those bullies, knowing he was gonna get hurt, and still say no to them?

Steve was _interesting,_ and James had about a million questions he wanted to ask him, but it wasn’t like he was going to force Steve to answer. He mostly just wanted to say hi and find out what he did wrong.

One more try, he decided. And if Steve still didn’t want to talk to him he’d give up and leave him alone. It might drive him nuts not knowing _why_ Steve wouldn’t talk to him, but he wasn’t going to harass him when he was already dealing with bullies.

As soon as school ended, James made a ran for the door. He planted himself on the sidewalk in front of the school and started scanning the crowd for short blond heads. Steve had to walk out those doors. There was no other way out of the school. They weren’t allowed out back except for during break.

James waited. And waited.

When the crowd of kids started to thin out, he slumped down and sighed, wondering why he was bothering when Steve obviously wanted nothing to do with him. Well, he knew _why_ he was bothering, but he also knew that this was the point where his Ma always told him to back off, to tone it down. He was too curious for his own good, that’s what she always said. He asked too many questions.

He didn’t see what was so wrong with wanting to know stuff, but apparently he was ‘too much’ sometimes. Too much what? He didn’t know, and his Ma never said.

Just as he was turning away to head home, a blond-haired boy darted out the front door of the school and rushed off in the opposite direction. James whipped his head around and narrowed his eyes.

“Steve!” James called, starting to jog after him.

Steve completely ignored him. James slowed to a stop and squinted at the skinny blond-haired boy. Was that not Steve?

It was, he decided. It definitely was. James scowled at the back of his head and started running again. He didn’t care if he was being ‘too much’, he’d helped Steve and got in a lot of trouble for it. His Ma was still mad at him. If Steve didn’t want to be friends, then fine, they wouldn’t be friends, but he could at least _say that._

“Rogers!” James barked.

Steve finally spun around, his face set into determined, defiant lines. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides and he looked like he was gearing up for a fight. “What do you-” he stopped, blinked, and stared.

“Why are you avoiding me?” James demanded.

“What?” Steve’s brow furrowed like he was confused.

“Every time I try to say hello you run away. Why?”

“I don’t run away!” Steve looked offended now.

James rolled his eyes. “Fine, you don’t _run._ You duck into a classroom or around a corner. Or hide in a crowd.”

“I don’t-” Steve scowled and looked away. He scanned their surroundings as if hoping for an interruption or distraction, but he’d been one of the last people out of the school and everyone else was already gone. They were alone.

“Just tell me why,” James pressed. “I’ll leave you alone, I swear. I just want to know why. What did I do wrong? I thought-” _we could be friends,_ he didn’t let himself finish. It sounded a little too pathetic to say out loud, like he was begging for friendship. He had friends. He had plenty of friends.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Steve said sharply. He was glaring at James again.

“Obviously I did _something_ or you wouldn’t be running away from me!”

“I’m not running!” Steve practically shouted. He looked like he was thinking about punching James in the face, which was fair because James was thinking about punching Steve in the face.

“Yes, you are!” James insisted.

“No, I’m not!”

“Yes-” James was cut off when Steve stepped forward and shoved him hard. He stumbled back into the wall of the building next to them and Steve shoved him again, pinning him against it.

“Does it look like I’m running?” Steve demanded. His face was turning red.

James blinked at him. It wouldn’t be hard to push him away, but he didn’t want to turn this into a physical fight. “No?” he said instead.

Steve deflated at his response, dropping his arms and taking a small step back. He stared mulishly at the ground.

“So why are you avoiding me?” James asked again when it was clear Steve wasn’t going to speak.

“I’m no-” Steve lifted his head to glare.

“You are.”

Steve ducked his head again and mumbled something James didn’t quite catch.

“What?”

Steve glared up, jaw set. “I don’t want anyone helping me just because I’m short and skinny and sick all the time. I don’t need help. I can protect myself.”

“That’s not…” That definitely wasn’t what he’d expected Steve to say. And the kicker was, he wasn’t even wrong. The main reason James helped him was because he looked like he needed help. But just because he wasn’t wrong didn’t mean he was entirely right. Wanting to help Steve had little to do with why he wanted to talk to him _now._

James had no idea how to put any of that into words that would make sense.

“I thought we could be friends,” he finally said. It sounded pathetic, but it was better than the jumbled mess of, ‘You’re right, but you’re also wrong because you’re interesting and stupidly brave and confusing’.

At least Steve stopped glaring at him. He stared at James instead, looking confused. James got the feeling that neither of them really understood the other, but that was made Steve so interesting.

“You want to be friends?” Steve asked, sounding almost suspicious. “Why?”

“What do you mean why?”

“Why would _you_ want to be friends with _me?”_ Steve emphasized. “We have nothing in common.”

“How do you know?” James asked, starting to feel a little defensive. “You don’t know me.”

Steve scoffed. “Everyone knows you. You’re smart. You’re good at sports. You’re friends with everyone.”

“So?” Steve made that sound like a bad thing.

“So?” Steve repeated. “I’m _not._ I’m not good at school or making friends and I can’t even walk down the street without losing my breath.”

“You’re braver than me,” James said.

Steve narrowed his eyes. “You’re lying.”

“Am not,” James argued. “I would’ve just given them my lunch money.”

“Why would you do that?” Steve looked almost comically offended. “They have no right to take people’s money.”

“Missing lunch for a day’s better than having bruises for a week.”

“That’s wrong! If nobody stands up to them they’ll just keep doing it.”

That was a good point, James admitted to himself. He’d never thought about it that way. But still, “I told you you’re braver than me.”

Steve glared at him and clenched his jaw shut. James crossed his arms over his chest and stubbornly waited for Steve to either disagree or say he was right. But Steve did neither, only looking more stubborn by the second.

In the end, it was James that gave in. “I’m not going to force you to be friends with me. I said I’d leave you alone if you told me why, and you did. So that’s it, I guess… I’ll leave you alone.”

Steve finally stopped glaring at him, but he still didn’t speak.

After another awkward pause, James gave a little wave and started backing away. “I’ll see you around,” he said, then corrected, “or not.”

“Wait,” Steve said.

James stopped, then tilted his head when Steve didn’t say anything. “What?”

“You really wanted to be friends?” Steve asked, sounding more uncertain than James had ever heard him sound.

“Yes?” He thought he’d been pretty clear about that, as embarrassing as it was. He’d never been rejected before and he didn’t think he liked it very much.

“Do you still?”

James couldn’t read the expression on Steve’s face. “Why?”

Steve opened his mouth, then closed it and kicked at the ground. “Never mind,” he muttered. He waved his hands. “You can go.”

James eyed him. “We can be friends if you want,” he said, hoping he was on the right track and not about to embarrass himself even more than he already had. “But I’m not going to make you.”

“Okay,” Steve practically spat out.

James frowned at him. “I’m not going to-”

“I want to,” Steve interrupted, glaring at him as if daring him to argue.

“Okay,” James said slowly, confused. He didn’t look like he wanted to.

They stared at each other until the silence grew awkward again, but this time it was Steve who ended it. He stuck out his hand and said, “I’m Steve Rogers.” There was a hint of a challenge in his tone.

James eagerly reached out to shake his hand. “James Barnes. Don’t call me Jamie. Or Jimmy.”

“Okay, Jim,” Steve said.

“Or Jim,” James added.

“Okay, Jay.”

James eyed Steve and saw the corners of his lips twitch. “You-” he cut himself off, not wanting to say something rude and ruin the tentative friendship they’d barely even started. “You’re a punk,” he finished lamely

“And you’re a jerk,” Steve said casually, spinning on his heels and starting to walk away.

James stared after him, bewildered, and had to jog to catch up. “I am not,” he argued. “You know, anyone else would be thanking me right now.”

“Thank you, Jimbo,” Steve said obediently.

James reared back in offense as soon at the words registered. “Jimbo?” he repeated. “No. _No._ Call me that again and I’ll give you a second black eye to match the first.”

Steve laughed. “Well, what do you want me to call you?”

“James.”

Steve scrunched up his face a little. “James reminds me of James Price.”

“Who’s that?”

Steve gave him a funny look. “One of the boys you knocked around the other day. Bobby Adams and James Price?”

“Oh,” James said. Nameless Kid’s name was apparently James Price. He scowled. “Why couldn’t my folks have named me something less common? _Anything_ less common. Seems like half the kids in Brooklyn are John, James, or Jimmy. Every time my Ma yells my name I swear ten different people turn to see what she’s calling them for.”

Steve snickered and James turned to glare at him. “You think it’s funny? I know five boys in our school named James. Six if you count James Price. And I bet there’s more I don’t know. Stop laughing!”

Steve did not stop laughing. “Why don’t you use a nickname?”

“My little sisters call me Jamie and it’s the _worst,_ ” James complained. “And I don’t like Jimmy.”

“Jay?” Steve suggested.

James grimaced and shook his head. “James is fine.” He saw Steve opening his mouth and cut him off before he could start talking. “And if you suggest _Jimbo_ I swear I’ll punch you.”

Steve snorted. “Nah. I was gonna ask what your middle name is.”

“Buchanan,” James said. “Not great for nicknames. I’ve tried.”

“Canon?”

“If I want everyone to laugh at me, sure.”

Steve punched him in the arm. “Gimme a second to think, jerk. What about JB?”

“Ow!” James protested, rubbing his arm. Steve’s knuckles were ridiculously sharp and bony. “Just call me James. I don’t need a nickname.”

“No,” Steve said stubbornly.

James groaned, because he was starting to get an idea of how stubborn Steve was and he didn’t want a stupid nickname. He was about to say something to that effect when he caught sight of a building he didn’t recognize. Spinning in a circle, he took in the vaguely familiar surroundings.

“Hey, where are we going?” James asked.

“The library.”

James wrinkled his nose. “Why?”

“Because I like it,” Steve said. “And I go there all the time, so if you want to be my friend you’re going to have to come with me sometimes. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to be my friend.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t go,” James said.

“You don’t have to.”

“Maybe I want to. Are you trying to get rid of me?”

No,” Steve denied. “I’m just saying. You don’t _have to-_ ”

“Are you going to turn every conversation into an argument?” James asked.

Steve glared at him. “You started it.”

“I did not!”

“Did too.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

The argument continued all the way to the library and didn’t end until the librarian shushed them and threatened to kick them out. Steve was the most aggravating person he’d ever met. He was worse than Becca, which James hadn’t thought possible.

Despite this, when they split up to go home a few hours later, James found himself eagerly making plans to meet up again the following afternoon.

***

“I’ve got it,” was the first thing Steve said to him the next day when school ended.

“Got what?”

“Bucky.”

James blinked, confused. “What?”

“Bucky,” Steve repeated.

“What’s Bucky?” Is that the name of a book or something?”

“You’re Bucky,” Steve said. “Buchanan, Bucky. Get it?”

James opened his mouth, closed it, and eyed Steve skeptically. “Is that even a real name?”

“Of course it is,” Steve said. “It’s your name.”

“It’s not a real name,” James said, certain now.

Steve shrugged, but to James’s surprise changed the subject instead of arguing. “What did you think of the book?”

“It’s dumb,” James said, partly because it was true, but mostly because he wanted to see Steve’s reaction. “It’s a little kid’s book.”

Steve’s reaction didn’t disappoint, although it did hurt. He’d forgotten exactly how pointy Steve’s knuckles were, but lucky for him Steve was happy to remind him.

“It’s not dumb,” Steve glared at him. “You said you wanted a short book.”

“Stop hitting me,” James complained, rubbing his arm. “And it _is_ dumb. It’s about a stuffed rabbit that wants to be real.”

“It’s a kid’s book,” Steve said. “It’s cute. And I like the drawings.”

“They look like a five year old drew them,” James muttered, still rubbing his arm. Steve punched harder than Becca and Becca punched harder than anyone else he knew. Friendly punches were supposed to be _friendly,_ not still hurt ten minutes later.

Steve scowled at him so angrily that James immediately raised his hands in defense. “It’s _art,_ ” Steve insisted. “There is no good or bad. It’s a different style of drawing and I thought it was interesting.”

“Fine, jeez,” James relented. “Anne liked it.”

Steve stared at him, then rolled his eyes so hard James was almost impressed. “How is it dumb if your sister liked it?”

James stuck his tongue out and laughed at Steve’s unimpressed look. “She’s three. Three year olds like dumb stuff. It’s about a stuffed animal, Steve. I could come up with a better story than that.”

“Yeah?” Steve challenged. “Then prove it. You come up with a story and I’ll draw it.”

“Okay,” James said right away. That sounded fun. “But I’m making it about… dinosaurs,” he decided. They’d learned about them in class a few weeks ago.

Steve nodded, then seemed to pause. “How am I supposed to draw a dinosaur?”

James laughed. “Your problem, not mine!”

 

*****

 

“James!” a voice called out just before he stepped into his classroom.

Sighing, James turned back and forced a smile onto his face. He hated mornings and it was too early to talk to anyone, but it wasn’t Vince’s fault he was grumpy. “Hey, Vince.”

“Where’ve you been?” Vince demanded. Frank came up beside him and suddenly this felt a little less friendly. “We haven’t seen you in days.”

Feeling more awake, James shrugged. “I got in trouble for fighting, so my Ma made me go straight home after school.”

It wasn’t a lie, although twisting the truth like that made him feel guilty. His Ma _had_ made him go straight home the first day and he’d had to help her clean the whole house and wash the dishes. He’d spent the three days after that with Steve, but he didn’t mention that.

“Someone said you’ve been talking to the runt,” Vince said.

_Runt._ James remembered Bobby Adams using that exact same insult, which reminded him that Vince and Frank were a grade above him, in the same class as Steve’s bullies. Were they friends?

“Don’t call him that,” James said, letting that answer Vince’s question. “His name’s Steve. And what does it matter to you?”

“So it’s true?” Frank looked genuinely surprised. “Why?”

“Why not?” James asked, not seeing what was so bad about being friends with Steve. “He’s fun.”

Vince’s face twisted up, either in confusion or disgust. It was hard to tell, but James didn’t like it. “Come play stickball with us,” he said. “Today, after school. We’ve been short a player since you disappeared.”

“Sure,” James agreed. He did miss playing and he didn’t want his friends to be mad at him. “Can I bring Steve?”

“Can he even play?” Vince asked, not in a nice tone.

James frowned at both him and his question. He wanted to say yes and get mad at them for thinking Steve couldn’t, but what if the running made him have an asthma attack?

“He can watch?” James suggested after a moment. It wasn’t a good solution, but he needed to think about it. He couldn’t ask Steve because he’d say yes even if it killed him, but he didn’t want Steve to feel left out if James never invited him either. And he definitely didn’t want to give up stickball. The library might be more fun than he’d expected, but it wasn’t something he wanted to do every day.

“As long as he’s not on our team,” Vince said. Frank shrugged, but didn’t speak up.

James nodded and pointed behind him. “I have to go to class.”

After Vince and Frank left, James shuffled into his classroom and chose a seat in the back. He didn’t understand why nobody else liked Steve. He was small, sure, and not exactly healthy, but what did that matter? None of that was his fault. And he was brave and fun and great at drawing.

He’d just have to make them see. They didn’t like Steve because they didn’t know him. If they got to know him better they’d have to see how great he was.

 

*****

 

They did not see how great he was.

Two weeks later, and James was running out of ideas. He felt like he was trying to shove a cat into a room full of dogs with the hope that they’d miraculously get along. Steve, the cat in this scenario, just bristled and hissed and refused to like any of James’s friends no matter what. Even when his friends tried to get Steve to play with them (mostly at his own request, he admitted to himself) Steve wouldn’t cooperate at all, not even when James practically begged him to.

He admitted that their teasing was a little too much sometimes, but they didn’t mean any harm. His friends weren’t bullies. They all teased each other. Steve just took everything too personally. He saw every comment as an attack even when it wasn’t. James could sort of understand his reaction because Steve _had_ been bullied before, so maybe he wasn’t used to normal teasing, but…

The part that didn’t make sense was how he and Steve teased each other just fine. Steve called him a jerk and James called him a punk and that was okay. He’d even made fun of Steve for not being able to reach a cup on a shelf, which did make Steve mad, but only for a few minutes. How was that okay but the same things weren’t when James’s friends said them?

Steve was like Mittens, Mrs. Kinder’s cat, who would sit on her lap all day being pet but scratched at anyone else who even thought about touching her. Steve, for some unknown reason, only liked James. He didn’t think one fight was enough to earn such loyalty, but Steve was strange like that. He either liked someone or he didn’t and James couldn’t for the life of him figure out what Steve was basing his judgment on.

Steve liked Old Man Jacobs even though he hated everyone, including Steve. He liked the garbage men of all people, even though Ms. Frazie gave Steve a dirty look every time he called out a greeting. To be fair, they seemed like nice enough guys, and unlike Old Man Jacobs they at least smiled and waved back, but still. He didn’t think Steve even knew their names. When James asked him if he’d ever talked to them, he said no. It was baffling.

Even stranger, Steve _hated_ Mr. Lorenz from the corner store even though literally everyone else loved him. James pointed out that he gave discounts to the older folks, but it didn’t seem to sway Steve’s opinion in the slightest. He just didn’t like him and that was that.

Right now, however, he needed to find Steve.

They were supposed to meet up after school and James had been standing on the sidewalk daydreaming for what felt like forever. It had to have been at least fifteen minutes now. What was taking him so long? At first he’d thought maybe Steve stayed back to talk to his teacher, but for fifteen minutes? Steve didn’t even like his teacher.

He was starting to think that maybe Steve wasn’t here at all. Maybe he’d gone home early. It’d happened before. He could’ve gotten sick or had an asthma attack or gotten punched and sent to the nurse and then gone home.

James sighed and tipped his head back to stare at the sky, trying to decide what to do. He could go home and meet up with Steve later. Or he could go play stickball, an idea that was more tempting than he wanted to admit. Steve was great and James was never, ever going to regret making friends with him, but he did miss playing stickball. And all the street games that involved running and jumping and all the stuff Steve couldn’t really do.

He’d go play stickball, he decided. Steve wouldn’t be mad - he was the one who kept telling James to go play. It was James who kept saying no because as much fun as stickball was, Steve was just as much fun in a different way.

Only, as soon as James turned to leave, he hesitated, feeling guilty. What if Steve _was_ in the school? What if something had happened and he was stuck in the office in trouble for fighting or in the nurse’s office struggling to breathe?

James spun around again. He’d go play stickball _after_ he double checked to make sure Steve wasn’t still in the school.

He jogged up to the front door before he could change his mind and slipped through it. The hallway was empty and dark; all the lights had already been turned off. It was eerily quiet. He bit his lip as he crept toward the office. He didn’t think he was supposed to be here and he doubted Steve was here, but he was already inside. Might as well check.

Down the hall and to the left, James hurried toward the office door. It was locked, because of course it was, and when he peeked through the window in the door he could see it was dark. Steve was definitely not there.

Unsurprised, yet strangely disappointed, James backed away from the door, chewing on his lip. Steve must have gone home early. He hoped he wasn’t sick.

Just as he was turning to leave, he froze at the sound of heels clicking on the floor around the corner. He didn’t wait around to find out who it was. He spun around and darted for the front door, shoving through it and blinking at the too-bright sunlight.

He made it to the sidewalk before the sound of a choked yelp froze him in place. Muffled laughter followed it and James traced the sound to the wooden fence separating the front of the school from the yard in the back. He squinted at it, but the gaps between the boards were too narrow to see much of anything.

No one was allowed back there after school, but he could hear shuffling sounds and low voices. None of it sounded very friendly.

_Steve?_ It could be anyone back there - the chances it was Steve were low - but then again, Steve did seem to have a knack for getting in trouble. And making people mad.

What if he’d been cornered by Bobby Adams and James Price again?

James didn’t let himself hesitate. If it was Steve back there, he was probably going to mouth off and earn himself another black eye. And if it wasn’t Steve? Well, James was apparently forming a new habit of stopping bullies. He was blaming Steve for that one.

He made a running leap for the top of the fence and clumsily scrambled over it. Circling the school would’ve taken too long and there was no way he was walking through that dark building a second time. His fingers stung with splinters as he half-fell down the other side, but he paid them no mind, too stunned by the sight that greeted him.

“Vince,” James said. “Mark. Ray.” He didn’t ask what was going on. That was obvious.

Steve was on the ground, huddled against the wall of the school with his arms wrapped around his stomach. He was surely wheezing based on the redness of his face, but James was too far away to hear it.

He’d been too late to stop Steve from getting hurt.

“Look,” Vince said, drawing James’s attention back to his… friends? Were they still? “You don’t have to be friends with him,” Vince continued. “He paid you or something, right?”

James blinked at him. “What?” That had to be a joke, but no one was laughing.

“Just forget about him,” Mark said encouragingly. “He’ll leave you alone now.”

“You… think he paid me to be friends with him?” They weren’t joking, but James almost laughed anyway. Steve and his Ma barely made enough money to buy food. They lived in one of the oldest tenements in Brooklyn, shared a bathroom with everyone on the floor, and didn’t have heat for the winter.

And even if they had the money, why would Steve pay _James_ to be friends with him? He could pick anybody. Someone braver or someone who liked going to the library more (it wasn’t that he didn’t like it exactly, more that he couldn’t sit still and be quiet for more than maybe ten minutes at a time. The librarians hated him.) or someone who was good at drawing or knew more about art.

“Well, why else would you talk to him?” Vince asked.

James glanced at Steve, who was still on the ground, and felt a surge of worry so strong it almost hurt. He’d seen Steve get up after being punched in the face, so he had to be hurting if he wasn’t even trying to stand.

“Why else,” James repeated.

“Come on, James,” Mark smiled tentatively. “Frank’s waiting for us.”

“Was he part of this?” James asked.

“Frank?” Vince sneered. “He’s a wimp.”

James just looked at them all. His friends. Ray was clearly nervous and Mark looked kind of confused. Vince was the only one who didn’t seem to sense that something was wrong. Worse, he had a look on his face like he knew exactly he was doing and was challenging James to defy him.

Seeing that look on his face, that hint of a smirk, reminded him painfully of Bobby Adams. Had his friend always been a bully? James had known him since he was five and he instinctively wanted to deny it, to defend him, to say Vince was just… just what?

_There’s no excuse for hurting people who can’t defend themselves,_ he heard Steve say. He hadn’t been talking about himself, but it wasn’t until right this second that James fully understood him. It was one thing to dislike Steve or even to tell him to stay away from James, but why hurt him? It was three against one, they were two years older, and Steve was the smallest in his class anyway. And when his only crime was being friends with James?

He tried to imagine beating up someone two grades below him and couldn’t. That’d be someone Becca’s age. It was just… _wrong._

James clenched his jaw and glared at Vince.

“Well?” Vince prompted. He looked confident, like he was absolutely certain James was going to side with him against Steve. Probably because until now James always had sided with him. Everyone did. He was the unofficial leader of their little group.

James opened his mouth to confront him, but hesitated. Was he really going to throw away years of friendship for someone he’d only met a few weeks ago? He selfishly didn’t want to lose his friends, and what if everyone else sided with Vince? None of them liked Steve, so why wouldn’t they?

He looked down at Steve, who was glaring at the ground like it was the gravel itself who had done him wrong. He looked back up at Vince and saw him smirking.

It was the smirk that did it, that smug look that said Vince was proud of what he’d done. In a flash of rage, James gritted his teeth, pulled an arm back, and swung like he was going for a gold metal. His knuckles crunched against Vince’s nose and pain like lighting shot up James’s arm.

He shook his hand out, swearing, as Vince fell back clutching his face. He probably shouldn’t have done that. Blood was now flowing out of Vince’s nose and Mark was gaping at him, looking horrified and betrayed. Ray took off running.

He didn’t regret it. He _refused_ to regret it.

“What was that, James?” Mark shoved James back a step. “Why’d ya do that?”

A stifled sob made James’s heart skip a beat when he realized Vince was crying. Okay, so maybe he shouldn’t have gone straight to punching. Yelling would have been better, or just picking Steve up and walking away.

Mark shoved him again, snapping him out of his head.

This time, James shoved him back. “You want me to hit you too? ‘Cause I will!”

Mark backed off, hands raised. “You shouldn’ta done that.”

“I think you broke my nose,” Vince cried, his voice muffled by his hands. “You broke my nose.”

“You deserved it,” James told him, shoving away the guilt by reminding himself what they did to Steve. “Steve’s my friend. Because I want him to be, not because he paid me.”

“If he’s your friend, then we’re not!” Mark yelled. He grabbed Vince’s arm and started pulling him back.

“Good,” James said, glaring at them. “I don’t want to be friends with bullies.”

“You broke my nose!”

“You started it.”

“Stay away from us,” Mark warned.

“Stay away from Steve,” James retorted. He glared at them until they disappeared around the corner, then rushed over to Steve. “Are you okay? They didn’t break anything, did they?” He seemed to be breathing okay, but he was still on the ground.

“Why’d you do that?” Steve asked quietly, not looking at James.

James frowned at the top of his head. “What do you mean why? They were hurting you.”

“They’re your friends,” Steve finally looked up, glaring at him. James almost rolled his eyes, because of course Steve was mad at him. He was Steve.

“Not anymore,” James said. He _didn’t_ regret it. He didn’t. “You think I want to be friends with people who’ll beat up my other friends?”

Steve shrugged and dropped his gaze to the ground again. “You didn’t have to do that. You broke his nose.”

“Didn’t mean to,” James admitted, carefully flexing his hand. It was throbbing. “I think I almost broke my hand, too.”

“Did you tuck your thumb?” Steve asked, grabbing James’s hand and pulling it toward him to examine it.

James winced, but didn’t pull away. “I dunno,” he said. Had he tucked his thumb? He knew he wasn’t supposed to, but he hadn’t exactly been paying attention to proper form.

“You shouldn’t have hit him like that,” Steve said, dropping his hand.

James rolled his eyes. “And they shouldn’t have hit you. They started it. And you wouldn’t be saying that if they’d been hurting someone else.”

“That’s different,” Steve argued. “I don’t need you to defend me.”

_Yes, you do,_ James thought. “Maybe you don’t need it, but I still want to.”

Steve pushed away from the wall he was leaning against instead of continuing the argument and immediately grimaced, cradling his stomach.

“They didn’t break anything, did they?” James asked again, moving closer but not touching. Steve didn’t always like to be touched, especially when he was hurt.

Steve shook his head. “Don’t think so.” He ran a hand lightly over his ribs, then shook his head again. “Just bruises.”

Bruises could still hurt a lot. “Let’s go to your place,” he said, wanting Steve’s Ma to check him out. She was a nurse, he’d learned.

Steve slowly straightened up and James tried not to hover too obviously. It was hard when Steve started shuffling forward, though, and by the time they made it around to the front of the school he couldn’t stand it anymore.

“Come on,” James said, wrapping an arm around him. “Let me help or we’ll be eighty by the time we make it to the end of the block. What did they do, kick you?”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Steve said, which didn’t answer the question at all.

“I thought they were better than that,” James said. “But you never liked them, did you?”

“They’re just kids,” Steve said. “I think they’re jealous ‘cause you’ve been talking to me more than them.”

“We’re all kids,” James said, because Steve’s argument didn’t even make sense. “Unless you’re secretly an old man.” He paused a moment. “You know, sometimes you remind me of Old Man Jacobs. Both of you’ve got that whole ‘angry at the world’ thing goin’, you know?”

Steve laughed and then groaned, doubled over a little. “Don’t make me laugh, jerk.”

“Jerk? Is that my new nickname?” James asked. “’Cause I thought it was Bucky.” Steve was still sticking to that one, so much so that half the time James didn’t even bother to complain about it.

Steve almost laughed again and elbowed him in the ribs. “Stop it or I’ll start calling you Jimbo instead.”

“Don’t you dare,” James warned.

 

 

 


	2. 1929

**October 1929 - (12 years old)**

“Everybody’s going nuts,” Bucky said in disbelief as he walked up to Steve.

“No Becca?” Steve asked without taking his eyes off the crowd descending on the bank across the street.

“She’s walking with Ma and Anne today,” Bucky said. It was Anne’s first year of school and even though it had been over a month, she still insisted Ma walk her to school every day. He didn’t remember himself or Becca ever being that nervous, except maybe on their first day, but Anne had always been the quiet one. Stubborn as hell, but only with family. With everyone else she barely spoke at all and always tried to hide behind Ma or Bucky or sometimes even Becca. He had no idea where she got it from. Maybe their dad. He definitely wasn’t shy, but he wasn’t a loud man either.

“They’re gonna start a riot if they don’t calm down,” Steve said, staring with wide eyes.

“You have any idea what’s going on?” Bucky asked. “My dad got real mad when he saw the paper this morning, but my Ma kicked me out before I could take a peek.”

“The front page said something about Wall Street panicking because stocks crashed,” Steve said.

Bucky frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It’s about money,” Steve said, brow furrowing. “Lots of people are losing money.”

“So they’re going to the bank?” Bucky asked, confused, as he watched men in suits start shoving at one another trying to get to the front of the line.

Steve shrugged. “I’ll ask my Ma later. Or maybe they’ll tell us in school?”

“We should go,” Bucky said, but didn’t move yet. “We’re gonna be late.”

Steve didn’t move either. “I think a lot of people are going to be late.”

“Right,” Bucky said. “Wanna buy some candy?”

Steve turned to frown at him. “Bucky.”

Bucky grinned and shrugged. “What? We’re already late. And we can just say we got distracted watching grown men fighting in the streets like school children.”

Steve snorted, grinning in spite of himself. “They’re not really fighting.”

Bucky looked over to eye the mass of people yelling and shoving at each other in front of the bank. “Sure looks like they’re about to start.”

“Come on,” Steve said, tugging at his arm.

“Candy?” Bucky asked hopefully.

Steve rolled his eyes. “Sure, Buck. We’ll stop for candy on the way.”

“Yes!” Bucky cheered, bouncing ahead of Steve. “Ma gave me a nickel yesterday and I haven’t had time to spend it yet.”

“Where do you want to go?” Steve asked. “Mr. Henry’s?”

“Sure,” Bucky said. “They have Milky Way bars, right?”

Steve shrugged. “Those are the ones with no peanuts?” He was allergic to peanuts.

“Yeah,” Bucky nodded. “Baby Ruth’s the one with peanuts. And Mr. Goodbar. And the Oh Henry and the Zero bar. And-” Steve punched him in the arm, making him yelp.

“Thanks, jerk,” Steve said dryly. “But I don’t need a list of all the candy I can’t eat.”

“Punk,” Bucky muttered, rubbing his arm. He didn’t understand why more people weren’t afraid when Steve threatened to punch them. Being so bony made everything he did hurt twice as bad. His elbows were like knives. “Mounds don’t have peanuts.”

Steve brightened up for a second before his face fell into a grimace. “Aren’t those the ones with coconut?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, subtly taking a step away.

“You know I hate coconut,” Steve narrowed his eyes.

Bucky took another step away and raised his hands in innocence. “That’s why I’m gonna buy a Milky Way!”

Steve took pity and didn’t punch him again, but probably only because he wanted a piece of Bucky’s candy bar. Steve’s Ma never had enough money for him to waste any on candy, so he only got it when Bucky shared his. Which wasn’t very often. His folks made more money than Steve’s Ma, but four kids also cost more than one. Bucky only got a spare nickel maybe once a month if he was lucky.

And he almost always shared with Steve or one of his sisters, so he rarely got a whole candy bar for himself. Sometimes he secretly bought the ones with peanuts and ate them when Steve wasn’t there, but most of the time he shared.

 

*****

 

They reached Mr. Henry’s shop without any further arguments. It was emptier than it usually was this time of day and the only other people inside besides Mr. Henry were two shabbily dressed young men all the way on the other side.

Bucky made a beeline for the candy next to the counter. He gave the gum a wistful look, but knew better than to buy it right before school. His teacher would make him throw it out as soon as he got there. He sent a cautious glance at Mr. Henry, half afraid he’d say something about how they were supposed to be in school, but the man’s eyes were glued to the _Brooklyn Daily Eagle_ in his hands.

“Milky Way!” Bucky whispered at Steve when he spotted them.

Steve ignored him. Bucky glanced over and saw him staring at the two young men in the back of the shop.

“Steve!” Bucky hissed. He elbowed him lightly. “Stop staring.”

Steve kept staring. Bucky elbowed him harder, which finally made him turn around. Only, he had that look in his eye that made Bucky’s heart rate pick up in preparation for whatever trouble Steve was about to cause.

“They’re pocketing stuff,” Steve said in a low voice.

“What?” Bucky mouthed, his eyes darting over to the young men at the back of the shop. They did look a little shifty now that he was paying attention. They were also big. Not huge or even particularly muscled, but they were definitely fully grown. Men, not boys. Bucky did not like his odds if Steve picked a fight right now. He might be able to hold his own against kids a year or two older than him, but Bucky was twelve. These guys were at least eighteen or nineteen. This was not a fight he was capable of winning. Not even close.

“Let’s buy the candy and go,” Bucky whispered, nudging Steve toward the register.

Steve planted his feet and glared at him. “They’re stealing!” he hissed. “We have to do something.”

“No, we don’t,” Bucky shook his head. “It’s none of our business. Let’s just get out of here.”

“I’m gonna say something,” Steve said, a little too loud.

Bucky grabbed his arm. “Don’t,” he warned, because there were so many ways he could see that going wrong. “Let’s go.” He clutched at the candy bar in his hand and tried to pull Steve towards the register.

“Hey!” Steve yelled. “I saw that! They’re pocketing stuff, Mr. Henry!”

“ _Shit,_ ” Bucky hissed, freezing as the two thieves spun around to glare at Steve. “We gotta go.” He darted around to Steve’s other side and started dragging him in the opposite direction, towards the door. Steve, being Steve, fought him every step of the way. “ _Now_ , Steve.”

“Applesauce,” Steve muttered, just loud enough for Bucky to catch it.

Bucky whirled around and froze. _Gun_ , he thought. Mr. Henry had a gun and was pointing it at the thieves, who were running for the door. The door Bucky and Steve were currently standing in front of.

“Steve,” Bucky said, then ran out of time for words. He yanked Steve through the door and started to run. It took a second for Steve to get his feet under him, but apparently he wasn’t a _complete_ idiot because he stopped trying to fight against Bucky and started to run.

They didn’t make it far. Bucky ducked into an alley as soon as he heard Steve’s breathing stutter as he tried not to cough. He pushed Steve down behind a convenient stack of crates and ducked down next to him.

“Are you happy?” Bucky muttered, pressing a hand to his chest and trying to will his heart to slow down. It wasn’t pounding because of the running, it was pounding because of the _gun_. He’d never seen one in real life before, and now he’d had one pointed at him. He peeked around the crates to see if they’d been followed, but it looked like they might have gotten lucky.

Steve jabbed him with an elbow. “They were stealing,” he argued, then started coughing.

Bucky ignored the coughing. He knew what Steve sounded like when he was about to have an asthma attack and this wasn’t it. “We could have been shot.”

“He wasn’t aiming at us,” Steve said as soon as his coughing died down.

“So?” Bucky gestured sharply. “What if he missed? Those guys were running right at us!”

“I don’t think he even fired,” Steve said, way too calm for the seriousness of the situation. “We would’ve heard it.”

“That’s not the _point_ , Steve. There was a gun. Pointed in our general direction.”

“And nothing happened,” Steve said, starting to look irritated.

“We should have just left.”

“They were stealing.”

“ _Not our problem._ ”

Steve glared at him and Bucky glared back.

It was Bucky who gave in and looked away first. It usually was. He sighed. The argument was pointless. What was done was done and Steve was right. Nothing happened.

“We should get to school,” Bucky said.

Steve nodded, but shrank down as if he was the one who’d lost the argument. “I didn’t know he had a gun,” he mumbled.

Bucky huffed a laugh, suddenly amused by the whole thing. “I know. But you would've done the same thing anyway.”

“I-” Steve looked torn. “I would’ve been more careful. I could have told Mr. Henry instead of yelling.”

“Remember that next time,” Bucky told him. He pushed himself to his feet and held out a hand to Steve.

“Who says there’s going to be a next time?” Steve sounded offended, but didn’t hesitate to grab Bucky’s hand.

Bucky rolled his eyes and pulled Steve up. “Me, that’s who.”

They started to walk to school. Bucky still felt shaky from the rush of it all and he wondered how Steve could look so calm. He knew Steve was braver than him, but still... It was like having a gun pointed at them didn’t faze him at all. Was he not afraid of dying? Or… now that he was thinking about it, Steve came close to dying all the time between his asthma and the way he got sick. Was he just used to it? Bucky considered that for a moment, then forced himself to stop thinking about it before he put himself in a bad mood for the rest of the day.

They made it half a block before Bucky snickered, remembering something.

“What?” Steve asked.

“Applesauce?” Bucky asked, raising his eyebrows. “You see a gun and you say _applesauce?_ Your Ma’s not here to wash your mouth out, pal.”

Steve’s curious expression dropped into a scowl. “I didn’t- I wasn’t thinking!”

Bucky shook his head. “Come on, Steve,” he teased. “Live a little. Even your Ma wouldn’t care if you cursed after seeing a gun. You say applesauce if you stub your toe and your Ma’s standing right behind you. If you see a gun you say shit or damn or oh hell, please don’t shoot me!”

“Bucky!” Steve protested as he flushed red, glancing around wildly to make sure no one had heard. Lucky for him, nobody seemed to be paying attention. It looked like most people were already at work or at school, so the sidewalks were fairly empty. 

Bucky grinned at him. “What? You gonna tell me I’m going to _hell?_ ”

“Shut it,” Steve jabbed him in the ribs with a pointy elbow. The tips of his ears were going red.

Bucky grunted as he failed to dodge the jab and twisted away. “Jesus, Stevie. Knock it off with the elbows. My Ma’s going to think I’ve been fighting again if she sees me with my shirt off.”

“Hey,” Steve snapped.

“What?” Bucky asked, confused. He didn’t think he’d said anything that bad. He had a dirty mouth, sure, but Steve’d never cared before. Bucky teased him about it because it was fun to watch his face go red, but he’d never gotten _mad_ about it. “I wasn’t-”

“Did you steal that?” Steve demanded.

Bucky’s mouth dropped open as he followed Steve’s gaze down to the candy bar still clutched in his left hand. “I didn’t mean to, I swear!”

Steve just stared at him. Then he burst out laughing and it was Bucky's turn to stare at him incredulously. He whacked Steve in the arm with the Milky War bar. “This is your fault!”

It was a little squished and melted from Bucky’s tight grip, but it tasted delicious. Steve almost refused to eat it on principle, but caved in about three seconds flat once Bucky opened it. A candy bar was a candy bar, stolen or not.

 

*****

 

“This is a bad idea,” Bucky repeated for what had to be the fifteenth time.

He should have known Steve wouldn't just let it go. As soon as school ended, he grabbed Bucky and started dragging him toward Mr. Henry's.

“We ate the candy bar. We’re going to pay for it.”

_I’m going to pay for it,_ Bucky corrected in his head, but wisely didn't say aloud. “It’s only a nickel.”

Steve shot him a derisive look. “We don’t steal.”

“ _You_ don’t steal,” Bucky said before he could think better. “I made Becca steal candy once.”

Steve slowed down and twisted around to frown at him. “What?”

“Uh,” Bucky regretted saying anything. But Steve was like a dog with a bone when he wanted to know something, so Bucky blurted out the rest to get it over with. “I asked my Ma to buy some candy and she said no, so I told Becca to stick it in her pocket. And she did.”

Steve looked so disappointed that Bucky felt like his insides were squirming. “Bucky.”

“I was like five!” Bucky defended. “I didn’t know any better! All little kids do stuff like that.”

“Why didn’t you put it in your pocket?” Steve pressed. “Why make Becca steal it?”

“Uh,” Bucky blinked, then shrugged. “I don’t know? I’m a terrible person?”

Steve rolled his eyes and started pulling Bucky forward again. “Well, you know better now. And we’re going to give Mr. Henry his five cents.”

“It’s really not a good idea to go back there,” Bucky said. He twisted around to scan the area again, searching for any sign of the two young men from this morning.

“It’ll be fine,” Steve said dismissively.

“Right..." He wanted to trust Steve, he really did, but he was also painfully aware that sometimes when Steve was determined to do the right thing it was like he had blinders on. He missed all the signs of trouble coming until it was exploding in their faces.

The closer they got to the shop, the more nervous Bucky felt. This was a bad idea. He knew it was. What if Mr. Henry was mad at them? What if the two thieves were waiting to jump them? They had to be angry. He and Steve almost got them shot.

“I bet he doesn’t even know we took it, Steve,” Bucky argued futilely. “We could buy more candy with the nickel somewhere else.”

Steve didn't even slow down to look back at him. "Mr. Henry needs the money, Bucky. His daughter's sick. My Ma sees them at the hospital sometimes. It's something with her heart."

“Oh,” Bucky said. Well, he couldn't complain  _now,_ could he? He still didn't like the idea, but he started walking a little faster so Steve didn't have to drag him. “Well, why didn’t you say so sooner? I wouldn’ta spent all this time arguing.”

“You should want to pay him back anyway.”

Bucky stuck his tongue out at Steve. “Not everybody’s as good a person as you are, pal. It’s a nickel.”

Despite Bucky’s concerns, everything went smoothly. They reached Mr. Henry’s shop without seeing any sign of the young men from that morning and handed over the nickel with no problems at all. Mr. Henry had not, in fact, noticed the missing candy and praised them for being upstanding citizens. He thanked them for the warning that morning and apologized for scaring them.

Best of all, he gave them another candy bar as a reward for their honesty.

“Okay, so that wasn’t the worst idea,” Bucky admitted as they walked out a few minutes later.

“See?” Steve said with an unbearably smug look on his face.

Bucky punched him in the arm. (Lightly. He wasn’t _Steve_ ). “Don’t give me that, punk.”

“Jerk,” Steve muttered, rubbing his arm. “Actually, I think I’m going to head home now. I want to hear what my Ma has to say about the bank stuff. Did your teacher say anything? Mine didn’t. I asked, but she just said not to worry about it and then ignored me every time I raised my hand. I don’t like her.”

Bucky snorted. “You never liked her. But Ms. Miller didn’t say much about it either. She said everyone was making a big deal over nothing and that it only matters to rich people.”

“I’m gonna ask my Ma,” Steve said.

“Yeah, okay,” Bucky sighed. “I should probably do the same, I guess.” He didn’t think he cared half as much as Steve did, but his Dad _had_ seemed upset so it was probably important. Or he could just ignore it and ask Steve tomorrow, which sounded like a much better option.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” Steve offered.

“Of course,” Bucky smiled.

 

*****

 

For three days, everything was fine.

Well, not _fine_. The whole country was currently panicking about money or something, but that didn’t affect Bucky’s day to day life. Other than all the adults around him acting a little more anxious than usual, life carried on like it always had. Bucky went to school on Friday, met up with Steve, ran around Brooklyn all weekend until the sun started to set, went home for dinner… Everything was normal.

On Monday, it all went to hell. And not even Steve would blame him for his choice in language. It went to _hell_.

The sun was setting and Bucky was on his way home. He’d spent the last few hours after school at Steve’s because he suspected Steve might be getting sick and he didn’t want to make it worse by wandering around outside in the cold. Steve denied it, of course, but his cheeks were flushed and he didn’t argue with Bucky’s idea to stay in as much as he usually would have.

But the sun was setting now and he had to hurry if he didn’t want to be late for dinner. He kept forgetting that the days were getting shorter and the sun setting earlier. His Ma was going to be mad if he was out after dark again. She didn’t used to care, but there'd been a rash of robberies and thefts related to the banking crisis. Desperate fellas who’d lost all their money, his Dad said.

He was halfway home when he realized he was being followed. He probably wouldn’t have noticed at all if he hadn’t taken a shortcut through an alley next to a factory. His three shadows turned down the same alley, trailing about ten feet behind him.

They were quiet, but the alley was quieter. He heard their footsteps and glanced back over his shoulder. And recognized them. Two of them, at least- the thieves from Mr. Henry’s. The third man in the middle was unfamiliar.

Bucky’s heart skipped a beat. He looked forward again and swallowed heavily. The soft scuffing of their shoes was suddenly all he could hear. The alley was dark and shadowed and smelled like trash.

Bucky quickened his pace. He should have listened to his Ma and been more careful. He should have left Steve’s before the sun started to set and stuck to the busier streets instead of rushing through dark shortcuts.

The men behind him didn’t obviously speed up, but they were getting closer. He wasn’t imagining it. They couldn’t be more than six feet behind him now.

Bucky started to run. He didn't care if it was childish and he didn't care that Steve would've stayed to confront them. He wasn't Steve. His heart was beating wildly in his chest and he couldn't  _not_ run.

He skidded out of the alley onto the sidewalk and broke into a sprint as his heart sank. The street was almost as dark as the alley and he couldn’t see a single person who might be willing to help. The only person he did see ducked through a doorway as soon as they saw him running. Nobody wanted the trouble and Bucky couldn’t exactly blame them even if he really wished someone would help. Why couldn’t more people be like Steve?

He pushed himself faster as he heard heavy footsteps thudding behind him. If he could just get to a busy street-

A hand closed around his arm with an iron grip he had no hope of breaking. He instinctively switched from defense to offense and spun around swinging.

Bucky’s fist collided with the man’s jaw, but didn’t do as much damage as he’d hoped. The man just turned his head with it, then grabbed Bucky’s other wrist with his free arm and dragged him into a thin alley between two buildings. Bucky struggled the entire way, squirming and twisting and doing his best to wrench himself away.

“Hold still, you little snitch,” the man growled, and slammed Bucky into the wall of the building next to him.

Bucky cried out as his head bounced against the hard brick. He kicked out and hit something, but then more hands were on him. His mouth was covered and a heavy body pressed against him, restricting his movements. He tried to throw the man off, but barely managed to push himself away from the wall before he was slammed back into it.

Bucky gave up and stilled. His heart was hammering in his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second even though he knew it was a terrible idea, and instantly the spinning sensation in his head doubled. His eyes flew open as his stomach lurched and he swallowed back the urge to vomit.

“You gonna stop trying to run?” the man pressed against him asked.

Bucky shuddered as he felt the man’s hot breath against his ear. He smelled like smoke and sweat and something sour, and his stomach flipped again.

“Well?” the man prompted.

Bucky nodded. He breathed a sigh of relief as the man backed off. Not far, but far enough that they weren’t touching anymore. The other two men were still holding him, one on each side.

“What do you want?” Bucky asked as soon as the hand was lifted from his mouth. He should have bit it, he realized too late.

Instead of answering, the unfamiliar man punched Bucky so hard in the stomach he swore he felt the impact in his organs. Bucky crumpled. His knees gave out and he folded over as much as the hands holding his arms would let him.

“Know what that was for?” one of them asked.

Bucky couldn’t answer, not even if his life depended on it. Nausea swirled in his gut, but every single muscle in his abdomen had seized up. He could barely breathe, let alone go through the complex series of motions required for heaving his guts up. The pain was almost dull in comparison, distant in an achy sort of way.

“Cause you’re a snitch,” the man snarled. “A _filthy. Rotten. Snitch_. You and that little friend of yours.”

“Leave him alone,” Bucky found the strength to say. He raised his head and glared at the men as best he could. They were older than he’d thought. Mid-twenties, maybe. And their clothes weren’t shabby, just dirty and disheveled, like they’d been worn for a few days without a wash. They were expensive though. Good quality, not old or worn. If these guys were down on their luck, they hadn’t been that way for long.

Maybe they were some of those unfortunate fellas who’d lost all their money when the stocks crashed. Or maybe they were just criminals. Thieves could afford nice clothes if all their money was stolen. They probably wouldn’t care much about keeping them clean either.

The unfamiliar man in front of him grinned wide. One of his front teeth was chipped. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“What do you want?” Bucky repeated.

His only answer was another punch in the stomach, followed by one to his ribs. They came so fast he barely had time to brace himself, let alone attempt to dodge them. Bucky groaned and doubled over and this time they let him fall. It surprised him, though it shouldn’t have, and he hit the ground hard. He laid there for a second, stunned, before he saw feet moving.

He barely got his arms up in time to partially block the kick aimed at his face. It clipped the side of his head instead, painfully scraping the top of his ear. It was terrifying, knowing how far they were willing to go. They could have broken his nose or his jaw or taken an eye out with that kick.

Who tries to kick someone in the face? What kind of adult kicks a twelve year old in the face? Bucky was starting to lean more toward criminals than guys who’d lost their money.

Bucky huddled there, gasping, his arms curled around his head, waiting for the next blow. It never came. Instead, he heard laughter. Cruel, mocking laughter that made him want to jump up and fight back. To show them he wasn’t someone to be laughed at.

But more than that, it made him want to curl up and hide until they gave up and went away. Tears stung his eyes and his breath caught in his throat, but he didn’t let himself cry. Not now, not in front of them.

Slowly, Bucky uncurled and pushed himself up to sit. He pulled his knees to his chest and folded his arms over them where it would be easy to raise them to protect his face if he had to. He didn’t dare try to stand, even though the way they were towering over him made his chest clench with panic. Curled up the way he was, his stomach was protected. He didn’t think he could take another punch there. Something would break.

“What do you want?” Bucky demanded, throwing all the anger he could into those words. He knew he couldn’t win, but losing this badly hurt more than his body. Was this how Steve felt every time Bucky jumped in to help him out? If so, then Bucky understood a bit better why he was always so angry and resentful about it afterward. He didn’t like feeling so small and helpless.

The man with the chipped tooth smiled. “Why d’ya think we want something?”

Bucky stared up at him, at a loss for words. He was unprepared for the kick from one of the thieves that slammed into his side a second later. It knocked him over and he instinctively rolled over and curled up again, throwing his arms over his face.

This time, they didn’t stop. They kicked him again and again. Mostly his legs and his back. Nowhere vital and not hard enough to break bones. Just hard enough to _hurt._

“Stop!” Bucky cried after less than ten seconds. And then he was babbling and pleading and couldn’t stop, “Wait! Please, I’ll do whatever you want, just stop it. Please. Anything. I’ll do anything.”

They stopped.

Bucky sobbed once into the silence, then forced himself to hold his breath until he choked down the impulse to cry. He couldn’t stop the tears trickling down his face and he couldn’t erase the way he’d begged, but he could prevent himself from bawling like a baby.

“Anything?” the unfamiliar man asked.

Bucky carefully uncurled just enough to look up at them. The man who spoke was grinning and the two thieves were stone-faced. Feeling a rush of shame, he nodded. He wasn’t Steve. He wasn’t brave.

“How about,” the man paused as if building suspense. “Five dollars.”

“What?” Bucky’s voice cracked on the word. “I can’t. I don’t have that much.” He didn’t even have a nickel.

Bucky flinched violently when the man made like he was going to kick him. He didn’t, and they all laughed. Bucky swallowed down another sob, not wanting to give them the satisfaction.

“So get it,” the man said. “You can do that, right? ‘Cause if you can’t…”

Bucky nodded quickly. “I can,” he blurted out. “Five-” _how the hell-_ “five dollars.”

The man grinned wide, more baring his teeth than smiling. “I’ll even be nice and give you a week. Say thank you.”

Bucky dug his fingernails into his palms and forced out the words. “Thank you.”

The man barked out a laugh and waved to his pals, gesturing that they were leaving. Before they reached the sidewalk though, the man turned back to Bucky one last time. “Try an’ hide or skimp out and we’ll make this look like a friendly tussle. Yeah?”

Bucky nodded silently and watched them go. Then he curled up on the cold, hard dirt and threw all of his energy into fighting back the sobs building in his chest.

***

The sun had fully set by the time Bucky moved to pick himself up. It was dark and the cold had settled into his bones, numbing the pain along with everything else. He didn’t even feel scared. He was just sort of… numb.

Unfortunately, the cold couldn’t get rid of everything. Bucky’s head spun dizzily when he pushed himself up and his abdomen cramped when he tried to stand straight. He staggered into the wall as the ground tried to throw him off by tilting to the side. Before he could even attempt to steady himself he was doubling over and throwing up whatever was left in his stomach from lunch. It wasn’t much, but the way his muscles contracted as he heaved made him feel like he was being punched in the stomach all over again.

Bucky groaned and sank to his knees, barely having the presence of mind to avoid kneeling in his own vomit. It _hurt_. He wanted to lay back down and cry. He wanted his Ma. He didn’t care if it was childish, there was no one here to make fun of him. He wanted his Ma.

After a minute, he forced himself to stand again. He couldn’t stay here. He’d freeze to death overnight. Fortunately, the dizziness wasn’t as bad the second time and even the nausea seemed to have settled into a background queasiness. Unfortunately, he was starting to shiver. He wasn’t sure if it was from the cold or the shock wearing off, but either way, the numbness was disappearing fast and his body was starting to ache.

He staggered out of the alley on numb feet and headed for home. Every step hurt, but worse than the pain was the knowledge that he’d only been two blocks away from home and safety. Two blocks. He could run that distance in less than a minute. In a way it was a good thing because right now he wasn’t sure he could walk any farther than that, but knowing he’d been so close to home the entire time was infuriating.

He used that anger to drive him forward, not stopping until his hand was hovering an inch away from the doorknob to his house. Then he paused. What was he going to tell his folks? The truth? Should he lie?

He didn't want to tell them the truth. How many times had his Ma reminded him to be home before dark? It was his own fault he got hurt. He hadn't listened. But he didn't think he could take being scolded right now. He'd start crying and then his Dad would give him that  _look_ because he was too old to cry and-

No. He couldn't tell them. He didn't want to tell them.

Bucky fixed his hair as best he could without a mirror only to realize the effort was pointless the second he looked down. It was dark, but even in the dim lighting coming through the windows he could see how rumpled and dirt-streaked his clothes were.  _Shit._

Bucky uselessly wiped at a streak of dirt on his hip, wanting to scream.

His face might be surprisingly injury-free, but there was no way his Ma would believe him if he said he wasn't fighting. What was he supposed to tell her? That he'd been rolling around in the dirt just for fun? His ear was scraped up too, he remembered. He winced when he touched it.

Maybe he  _should_ tell the truth.

If he did, they’d probably give him the five dollars. But his Ma would be mad and his Dad would be disappointed and they really couldn’t afford it. They’d have to dip into their emergency savings and Bucky didn’t want to make them do that. Especially when they were already worried about money because of the banking thing. His Dad hadn’t lost his job, but he knew a few men who had and everyone was worried.

Bucky stood on the doorstep, wavering back and forth between options, for far longer than he should have. He shamefully wanted to go running to his Ma so she'd hug him and make it all better. He wanted to ask her for the money. He wanted it all to go away. 

But he didn't want to disappoint them. He didn't want to worry them. He didn't want to get in trouble. He didn't want to act like a baby and run to his Ma for help.

He opened the door before he made a decision. He would've stood there all night if he could have, but his legs felt wobbly and he needed to sit down. 

“You’re late,” he heard his Ma say almost instantly.

Bucky froze when everyone turned to stare at him. They were all at the table eating dinner and even little Eva twisted around to stare at him. Watching Becca’s eyes widen, then narrow, snapped him into motion and Bucky quickly closed the door behind him and aimed for the stairs.

“Not hungry,” Bucky said as he walked, doing his best not to limp. The urge to run crying to his Ma was gone, vanished in an instant when confronted by the reality of actually doing it. “I’m just going to-”

“Stop right there,” Winifred ordered. “Get over here, James Buchanan Barnes. Have you been fighting again?”

Bucky froze mid-step, stumbling a little as the sharp movement made his vision wobble. “It wasn’t like that, Ma,” he said, then immediately felt like a whiny child. His Ma looked unimpressed and his dad looked disappointed. Bucky's chest clenched and as fast as the impulse to cry had gone, it returned.

_It wasn’t my fault_ , he wanted to say. But he knew they wouldn’t listen and he didn't think he could speak without giving away how close he was to crying.

“Then what was it like, James?” Winifred asked. “Explain it to me.”

Bucky stared at the wall above the kitchen table. If he was going to tell the truth, it should be now. He’d only get in more trouble if he waited. He shrugged instead.

“Was it Steve again?” his Ma asked. “I don’t know if you should be friends with that boy if this is how it’s going to be. You never used to get in fights.”

Bucky’s eyes snapped to hers, alarm washing through him. “Steve wasn’t there. It wasn’t his fault.” He wasn't going to stop being friends with Steve. He didn’t care what anyone said.

“Watch your tone, James,” George finally spoke up. He didn’t raise his voice, but that almost made it worse. “Don’t speak to your mother like that.”

Bucky ducked his head. “Sorry, Ma.”

“Sit down,” Winifred said.

Bucky shook his head and took a step back. He was lucky he’d stuck close to the wall, because he almost fell again when the room spun. “I’m really not hungry.”

Winifred’s eyes were intent. “Are you hurt?”

Bucky shook his head again, carefully this time. “I ate some at Steve’s. His Ma made dinner early because she’s on the night shift.” It wasn’t completely a lie. Steve’s Ma really was working the night shift and she had made dinner early. But Bucky left before they started eating.

His Dad looked faintly disapproving, the way he always did when Bucky brought up Steve’s Ma. He wasn’t sure if it was because she was a single mother or because she was working all the time, or maybe because she was an immigrant or because she was Irish. Bucky never asked and he didn’t want to know.

His dad was one of those people who thought women should stay home to raise the kids and let the men do the real work. He also thought immigrants were taking all their jobs. A lot of people thought the way he did. Bucky wasn’t sure he agreed because Steve’s Ma was nice and she did just fine on her own, but he didn’t want to argue.

His Ma looked suspicious as Bucky started edging toward the stairs, but she didn’t press. He had a feeling he’d be hearing more about this later, but for now he was allowed to slip off to his bedroom without a fight.

He crawled gingerly into bed, wincing as he tried to find a comfortable position, then a position which didn’t hurt too bad. Finally, he closed his eyes despite the pain and let himself drift away.

 

*****

 

Bucky’s entire body ached when he woke up the next morning and that was before he tried to move. He cursed the men for not waiting until Friday to beat him to hell and back. Then he’d at least have the weekend to recover. Instead, today was Tuesday and he had four more days of school before he could relax. By the time Saturday came around the worst of it would already be starting to heal.

Bucky mumbled all the swears he knew as he rolled out of bed and staggered to his feet. Of course, it was only  _after_ he cursed a blue streak that he thought to check if Becca's bed was empty. It was, thank god, or she wouldn't have wasted a second running to Ma to get him in trouble. 

He couldn’t wait until he had his own room. It had to happen eventually because Becca wouldn’t want to share with a boy forever, but right now she didn’t want to share with Anne and Eva either. They only had three bedrooms though, and soon she’d have to switch. He hoped she did, at least.

He wasn’t standing for more than a few seconds before his head started swimming. Bucky blinked rapidly, confused, as the edges of his vision started closing in and his muscles started to feel limp and noodly. A second before his knees gave out, he sucked in a deep breath. His head cleared almost instantly.

Bucky sat back down on the edge of his bed just in case. He’d never passed out before, but he was pretty sure he’d just been a second away from swooning like a dame. Not good. He wondered if it had been the sudden ocean of pain that did it or the knock to the head.

Sitting there, still a little light-headed, he seriously considered confessing everything to his Ma and begging her to let him stay home. He couldn’t go to school like this. But then he remembered her words last night, and how lately she kept saying Steve was a bad influence and that Bucky shouldn’t be friends with him.

He couldn’t risk his friendship with Steve. He refused to. And if his Ma found out the truth, or even part of the truth, like how bad he was hurt, there was no way she’d believe him if he tried to tell her Steve wasn’t involved. She’d try to ban him from being friends with Steve, and while it wouldn't work (he wouldn't let it, he didn't care what he had to do), that didn't mean she couldn't make things difficult for them.

This was all his fault, Bucky admitted to himself. Not the part with the thieves - that was at least half Steve's fault - but the part where his Ma didn't approve of Steve. He shouldn't have gotten in that fight last month. She'd been okay with Steve before that; not exactly approving, but she hadn't made a fuss about it. It was his own damn fault for being dumb enough to start a fight on school grounds, during school, without keeping an eye out for teachers. And he called Steve reckless. 

They’d been bullying Steve, so he didn’t regret the fight, but he did regret not being smarter about it. If he'd just  _waited_ he could have taught the bullies a lesson outside of school and not gotten in trouble at all. Then that whole meeting between his Ma and the principal about his 'issues with using physical violence' wouldn't have happened and his Ma would still be okay with Steve. 

He needed to stop getting so mad when people hurt Steve. It made him stupid.

Bucky shook his head a little, refocusing. If he wasn't going to tell his Ma about the fight (could he even call it a fight if it was that one-sided?) then he had to go to school. Or at least pretend he was going to school. He needed to get up and act normal. 

After spending a moment mentally bracing himself for the pain, Bucky slid off the edge of the bed and stood. His legs held and when his head didn't start going all fuzzy, he breathed out a sigh of relief. He could do this. He had to. He wasn’t going to let his Ma blame Steve and he wasn’t going to beg his parents for money. He did enough begging last night. It was time to grow up and stop acting like a baby. Solve his own problems.

Unfortunately, his current problems included standing up straight without hunching over like he’d been punched in the stomach. It was harder than he thought it would be.

“James! Are you not up yet?” Winifred called up the stairs.

Bucky straightened up, winced, and called, “I’m up!”

He grabbed clothes and limped stiffly out of the bedroom and into the bathroom, knowing he wasn’t moving as smoothly as normal but unable to do much about it. He locked the door behind him, stripped off his sleep clothes, and stared into the mirror.

Surprisingly, the darkest bruise wasn’t on his stomach. It was on the back of his left thigh, which explained why it was so hard to walk without limping. The bruises on his back were only slightly lighter and he had to grit his teeth when he stretched his arms up to change his shirt. Thankfully, the scrape on his ear, the only injury he couldn’t hide, wasn’t nearly as bad as he feared. After he washed off the little bit of dried blood it was barely noticeable.

Once he was dressed and his hair was combed he looked fine. Tired and a little pale maybe, but okay.

Now if he could only move without giving himself away.

Bucky clenched his jaw and left the bathroom, heading for the kitchen. The stairs hurt, but he didn’t let himself stop. He slipped into the kitchen while his Ma had her back turned and claimed a chair at the table with a suppressed sigh. He wasn’t hungry, but he knew he couldn’t get away with skipping two meals in a row. At least he didn’t feel sick anymore.

Becca was giving him a funny look. Bucky sent her a glare, then pointedly ignored her.

“Here you go,” Winifred said, sliding Bucky a plate of eggs and toast. He wrinkled his nose and opened his mouth to complain (she _knew_ he didn’t like eggs) before thinking better and picking up his fork. Best not to make trouble.

He managed to eat all of his toast and most of the eggs before his stomach started to protest. Lucky for him, he almost never finished his breakfast when it involved eggs, so this wasn’t suspicious. His Ma would eat the leftovers; they wouldn’t go to waste.

“James,” Winifred said as soon as he braced his arms on the table and pushed himself to his feet.

Bucky froze, thinking he was caught.

“You’re walking Anne to school today,” she continued. “I think Eva might be getting a cold and I’d rather keep her inside.”

Bucky nodded. “Is she okay with that?” The last few times she tried to send Anne to school with him and Becca, she’d thrown a fit and refused to step out the door.

“She has to learn eventually,” Winifred said, looking a little grim. “It’s been two months. That’s long enough.”

Bucky nodded again, but felt his stomach sink. An upset, clingy five year old was not something he was prepared to deal with today. Why did it have to be today? Like his day wasn’t bad enough already. It completely eliminated the option of skipping school that he’d been secretly considering since the moment he woke up. He could abandon Becca halfway through the walk and bribe her not to tattle on him, but he couldn’t do that with Anne.

Feeling even more grim than his Ma looked, Bucky left her in the kitchen and slowly began to gather his things. He was by the front door getting his shoes when he heard Becca come up behind him.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked accusingly. He was just grateful she kept her voice down.

“Nothing.” Bucky bent over to tie his shoes and involuntarily grunted when his lower back violently protested the movement by seizing up. He dropped to his knees with a gasp and braced an arm against the wall as he straightened his back.

“Nothing,” Becca repeated. “Clearly.”

Bucky shot her a glare, but she just raised her eyebrows and stared at him. “It’s nothing,” Bucky insisted. “I’m fine.”

“Want me to tie your shoes, Mr. Fine?” Becca asked, tilting her head as she watched him.

Bucky gritted his teeth, thinking that if she wasn’t a girl he would've punched her. He carefully tried to pull one leg up to his chest and froze when his back flared with pain again, driving the breath out of his lungs. He couldn’t reach his feet.

Frustrated, he thrust his foot at Becca. “Can you?”

Becca frowned at him like she hadn’t expected him to actually need help, but she crouched down to tie his shoe without saying anything. He gave her his other foot when she was done with the first, then used the wall to lever himself up.

“What happened?” Becca asked, still frowning.

“Nothing,” Bucky repeated. She opened her mouth to argue, but the conversation was put on hold when Winifred dragged a clearly reluctant Anne down the stairs.

“No,” Anne said stubbornly, digging her heels in as best she could. “You’re supposed to walk me!”

“I can’t, Anne,” Winifred said. “Not today. You have to go with James and Rebecca.”

“No!” Anne glared up at Winifred. Bucky could see a faint sheen of tears welling up in her eyes.

“Come on, Anne,” Bucky interrupted before this turned into a meltdown. “Walk with us today. It’ll be fun.”

“I’m not fun enough?” Becca asked, teasing. He could tell it was mostly a show for Anne. She was annoyed she couldn’t interrogate him.

“Nope!” Bucky played along, sticking his tongue out at her. He grinned at Anne. “She won’t even sing with me. What about you? Are you too embarrassed to sing with me?”

Anne smiled a little shakily and shook her head.

Bucky held a hand out. “Come on. Wanna see how red Becca’s face can get?”

“Bucky!” Becca complained, for real this time, but Anne stepped forward and took Bucky’s hand. She still looked a little pouty, but Winifred sent Bucky a grateful look and rushed off to deal with Eva, who was starting to whine.

“Let’s go,” Bucky said, spinning around and bouncing way more enthusiastically than his body was currently capable of. He had to pause for a moment before swinging the door open to catch his breath, and then another time when he remembered the steps. Today was going to be a nightmare.

 

*****

 

Steve wasn’t in school.

Bucky had mixed feelings about that. He was partly relieved because Steve knew him too well and would've pried the truth out in minutes. On the other hand, the distraction would have been nice. His entire body  _hurt_ and it was hard to concentrate on anything other than the pain.

At the same time, he couldn't help but worry because Steve being absent meant he was sick. And Steve being sick wasn't like normal people being sick. It was always worse.

Last winter, Steve missed a whole month of school when a simple cold turned into pneumonia. Steve's Ma had kept telling Bucky he’d be fine, but it'd been clear she was worried Steve wouldn’t make it. She even had to take him to the hospital and she’d never done that before, at least not while Bucky knew them. She didn’t even let him visit. He didn’t want to ever have to go through another month like that again.

The mixed feelings vanished the second Bucky went to the bathroom at lunch and saw that his pee was pinkish instead of yellow. _Blood_ , he thought immediately, feeling faint. He knew logically that it wasn’t much, but any amount of blood in his pee was too much blood.

What if he was broken somewhere on the inside and he was dying and-

_Steve_ , Bucky thought. Steve’s Ma was a nurse. She’d know what to do. And she was on the night shift last night, which meant she was probably home right now.

Plan in place, Bucky felt a strange sense of calm settle over him as he washed his hands, left the bathroom, and walked straight out the front door of the school.

He was halfway to Steve’s before he realized he should have gone to the school nurse, but he didn’t turn back. He didn’t want to see the school nurse. He wanted Steve and Steve’s Ma.

Time seemed to skip and the next thing Bucky registered was raising his fist to knock on Steve’s door. Sarah opened it a minute later.

“Bucky?” She looked confused. “Aren’t you supposed to be in school? Steve’s fine. He’s sleeping right now. He has a slight fever and I kept him home so he could rest.”

Bucky shook his head, though he was relieved to hear that Steve was mostly okay.

“What’s wrong?” Sarah repeated, gently grabbing his shoulder and guiding him in. “Come on, sit down.”

Bucky burst into tears. It surprised him as much as it seemed to surprise Sarah, but a second later she was pulling him into a hug. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d really cried in front of someone. It was embarrassing. He was too old to cry like a baby, but he couldn’t seem to stop.

At least Steve’s Ma was nice about it. She hugged him and rubbed his back until he’d mostly calmed down and then gently asked him what was wrong.

And Bucky told her. Not all of it, but he told her more than he’d told anyone else. He left out the part about Mr. Henry’s because he didn’t want to get Steve in trouble, and he left out the part about the five bucks, but he told her everything else. He told her how he thought he might be dying.

“Are you dizzy?” she asked when he was done.

Bucky shook his head. “Was last night,” he admitted, “but I think that was ‘cause I hit my head.”

“Where?” she asked, already moving to examine his head. Bucky ran his fingers lightly over the small bump on the back of his head and winced when she poked at it. “It doesn’t look that bad. Do you have a headache?”

“A little,” Bucky said honestly, “but it’s not that bad.”

She nodded. “Have you been sick?”

“Once,” Bucky said. “Last night. They punched me in the stomach.”

She nodded again. “Okay, shirt off.” Bucky hesitated and she raised her eyebrows. “It’s either that or I’m calling your mother to take you to a real doctor. Which I should do anyway, but let’s see what we’re dealing with first.”

Bucky took his shirt off. He ducked his head when she hissed at the sight of the bruises, but he let her check them out. She spent the most time looking at the ones on his lower back.

“I’m thinking bruised kidney,” she finally said.

“What does that mean?” Bucky asked immediately. He didn’t want to go to a doctor or the hospital, but he didn’t want to die either.

“It should heal on it’s own,” she said, frowning, “But someone needs to keep an eye on you, just in case it’s something worse. You should be in bed and you need to drink plenty of water. You went to school today?”

Bucky shrugged stiffly, then nodded.

“Your parents don’t know,” she said, half a question, half a statement. She sighed. “Injuries like this aren’t something you should try to hide, Bucky. It could be dangerous.”

Bucky ducked his head a second, then looked up at her. “Please don’t tell them?”

“Bucky…”

“Please?”

Sarah looked conflicted. “Bucky, why don’t you want them to know?”

“They’ll be mad,” Bucky said. “They don’t like me fighting.”

“You weren’t fighting,” Sarah pointed out. “You were attacked.”

“They’ll be mad,” Bucky repeated. And disappointed, which was almost worse. “I wasn’t supposed to be out after dark.” And he didn’t want them telling him to stop being friends with Steve. He could tell they were getting real close to doing exactly that. His Dad had never really approved of Sarah and now his Ma thought Steve was a bad influence.

Sarah sighed. “If you can convince them to let you stay here for the night, I’ll keep it to myself. But I can’t in good conscious let you go home without telling your parents. Someone needs to keep an eye on you. I’m serious, Bucky. This isn’t something you can ignore.”

Bucky nodded. “I’ll ask.” And his Ma would say yes. Probably. It wouldn’t be the first time he spent the night at Steve’s, although it was usually on the weekend, not a school night. But if Eva was getting sick his Ma would be happy to have one less kid in the house. “After school ends?”

Sarah sighed again, looking faintly disapproving. She nodded anyway. “You can call after school ends. For now, you should lay down.”

“With Steve?” Bucky asked.

Sarah hesitated, then shook her head. “You can take my bed. You don’t need to catch what Steve has on top of everything else.”

Bucky nodded and shuffled stiffly toward the bedroom. Steve and his Ma shared one bedroom, but their beds were on opposite sides of the room. Same as him and Becca.

“Hold up,” Sarah interrupted. “Not until you drink some water.” She was already moving to grab a cup from the cabinet. “Did you eat lunch?”

Bucky said yes and obediently drank the water, then slipped into the bedroom and shuffled quietly across the room. Steve’s cheeks were flushed pink with fever, but he was breathing easily. Bucky paused a second to frown at him. That was different. He was usually wheezy when he was sick. Then his leg started hurting, so he limped the rest of the way across the room and crawled into Sarah's bed. He sighed in relief at finally being horizontal again, closed his eyes, and was asleep only seconds later.

 

*****

 

_Five dollars._

As soon as Bucky stopped peeing blood and Steve’s Ma assured him he wasn’t dying, his mind latched onto the next problem.

_Five fucking dollars._

Who had that kind of money laying around? Not Bucky, that’s for certain. Even his folks didn’t carry that much money around, not unless they were planning on buying something big and nobody was planning on buying anything right now. So he couldn’t steal from them even if he wanted to. He’d have to take their money multiple times to collect all he needed and he doubted he could do it once without getting caught.

He couldn’t steal it from kids at school either. He’d have to shake down every single kid in the neighborhood to get five dollars. There was no way Steve wouldn’t hear about that and then Bucky would lose his best friend. He made friends with Steve by defending him from bullies trying to steal his money. If Bucky was the one stealing money Steve wouldn’t give him the time of day.

What options were left? He was twelve. He wasn’t big enough to bully adults into giving him money and if he tried to rob a store he’d be laughed out of the building. Who was going to be scared of a twelve year old wielding a kitchen knife? He didn’t have a gun and he didn’t think he wanted one even if he knew where to get one.

There was absolutely no way he could earn five dollars in a week the normal way. It would be hard to earn five dollars in a month.

He could ask someone to lend him the money, but who would lend money to a twelve year old who didn’t have a job? Who even had an extra five dollars to lend these days?

Bucky could feel the clock ticking away and he didn’t know what to do.

 

*****

 

He needed to gather more information, he decided. He ignored the little voice in the back of his head whispering that he was just wasting time, trying to distract himself. Gathering information was always the first step to solving a problem.

So on Thursday, Bucky made his way to Mr. Henry’s shop after school instead of heading straight to Steve’s to make sure he was still alive. Steve had some kind of stomach virus this time, with a fever and a sore throat instead of a cough and a stuffed up nose. Bucky thought it was better this way because it wasn’t likely to turn into pneumonia, but he still hoped Steve got better soon.

Mr. Henry smiled as soon as he walked through the door, obviously remembering him. Bucky smiled back, only to watch Mr. Henry’s smile fade as his eyes dropped to Bucky’s legs. Bucky followed his gaze down, didn’t see anything wrong, and then winced when he realized he’d forgotten to hide his limp. Oops.

“What happened to you, boy?” Mr. Henry asked.

“Tripped,” Bucky waved the question off. “Hey, any chance you know the names of those thieves from the other day?”

Mr. Henry instantly looked suspicious and Bucky cursed his impatience. He could have done that better. “What do you need to know that for? And where’s that little friend of yours?”

“He’s sick,” Bucky said. “Caught that cold that’s going around. Do you know their names?”

“Tell me why you want them first,” Mr. Henry said.

Bucky tried not to let his disappointment show. Couldn't  _anything_ just be easy for once? And sure, he should have eased into the questions instead of just blurting them out, but this had been the worst week of his life. He was off his game, anxious and distracted because of the high stakes. It wasn't his fault he didn't feel like being nice and polite and charming. What he really wanted to do was scream or hit something, so blunt and impulsive was actually a step up. Didn't mean it would work.

“They’ve been bothering a friend of mine,” Bucky lied carefully. “I thought I could help him out by getting their names.”

Mr. Henry shook his head. “Sorry, kid, but I can’t help. I know their faces because they come in once in a while, but I don’t have any names.”

Bucky let himself slump this time. As a last resort, he used a Steve move and looked up at Mr. Henry from under his eyelashes. “You can’t tell me anything?” _Please?_ He couldn’t bring himself to actually beg, not after the other night, but he did his best to convey the sentiment via facial expression. It still made him feel a little dirty.

Mr. Henry watched him for a moment. “I can give you one name, but only if you promise me you’re not going to get involved.”

“I promise,” Bucky said immediately.

Mr. Henry just looked at him. “I mean it, boy. You seem like a good kid, but these are some real unsavory folks you’re getting involved with. I don’t want to see you hurt.”

_I’m already hurt,_ Bucky thought. He widened his eyes into his best innocent look. It wasn’t nearly as good as Steve’s, but he didn’t think anybody could do it better than Steve. “I swear I don’t want anything more to do with them. I’ll be careful.”

Mr. Henry gave him a long look, during which Bucky struggled not to fidget. “Don’t make me regret this. And I’d prefer if you don’t tell anyone about this conversation. I don’t need more trouble showing up at my door.”

Bucky nodded eagerly.

“The name you’re looking for is Jack Moretti. He’s the leader of that little group. Now, he ain’t no big shot, but he likes to pretend he is and that makes him just as dangerous. Maybe even more so. He’s a man with something to prove.”

Bucky nodded. “Jack Moretti,” he repeated. He wondered if that was the man with the chipped tooth who punched him in the stomach. He’d seemed to be the leader of the other two.

“Stay out of it,” Mr. Henry warned. “You can tell your friend what I told you, but don’t go looking for trouble.”

Bucky nodded and gave the man an easy grin. “Thanks, Mr. Henry.” He waved a hand and backed out the door. This time, he remembered not to limp.

 

*****

 

“Hey, Stevie,” Bucky said about half an hour later as he plopped down on the side of Steve’s bed.

“Hey, jer-” Steve grimaced and swallowed heavily.

“Throat still hurt?” Bucky guessed.

Steve coughed out a weak laugh. “Like you wouldn’t believe.”

He was wheezing slightly, Bucky noticed. He narrowed his eyes a little as he realized that despite Steve’s nose being clear and his not having a cough, his breathing was tighter than it should be.

“Stop staring at me like I’m dying,” Steve complained.

Bucky huffed a laugh and forced himself to relax. It was just Steve’s normal asthma acting up because he was sick. It wasn’t pneumonia. “You’re too stubborn to die.”

Steve grinned up at him, face flushed red and slightly clammy around his forehead. “That’s me,” he agreed. “A little sickness can’t kill me.”

“Nah,” Bucky said. “When you go, it’ll be heroically fighting off an army of bullies twice your size.”

Steve laughed, then grimaced and swallowed. “And what about you?”

Bucky flashed him a grin. “I’ll be right next to you, yellin’ about how you’re the dumbest punk in Brooklyn.”

“I thought that was you, Buck,” Steve teased.

Bucky rolled his eyes. “We’ll share the title, then. Two dumbest punks in Brooklyn.”

They grinned at each other stupidly until Steve asked, “Read to me?”

“Sure,” Bucky said. “But it’s my turn to pick.”

Steve pouted at him. “You’re gonna pick Tom Swift again, aren’t you?”

“What’s wrong with Tom Swift?” Bucky pretended to be offended.

“Nothing,” Steve rolled his eyes. “Just that we’ve already read them all about a million times.”

Bucky grinned. “Well, guess what I got?”

“What?” Steve asked, dropping the grin and looking curious instead.

Bucky picked up the book he’d sneaked into the room earlier. “Tom Swift and the Wizard Camera!” he said enthusiastically. “It’s not exactly _new_ , but I’ve never read it before. The library doesn’t have it.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“Neighbors,” Bucky said. “I’m only borrowing it. I have to return it in a week or two.”

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Steve waved his hands impatiently.

Bucky huffed and obediently flipped the book open. Steve fell asleep after only fifteen pages, but Bucky had expected that. He was tempted to read ahead, but forced himself to close the book and set it down on the table instead. He slipped out of Steve’s room and waved to Steve’s Ma, who was sitting at the kitchen table mending what looked to be one of Steve’s pairs of pants.

“He’s sleeping?” she guessed.

Bucky nodded and gestured at the door. “Yeah. I should go. It’s almost time for dinner.”

It wasn't, but Sarah didn't question him. She looked tired as she nodded. "Stay safe."

Bucky ducked his head a little, still embarrassed by the way he’d cried on her. “I will,” he promised. “See you tomorrow.”

“Anytime,” Sarah said. “Unless it’s during school hours,” she added, then paused. “Unless it’s an emergency.” She shook her head, smiling slightly. “You know what I mean.”

Bucky grinned at her. “I got it. No skipping school unless it’s an emergency.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Bucky,” Sarah said, waving him off.

Bucky slipped out the door and hurried home. He still had about an hour before the sun even started to set, but he wasn't taking any chances. He'd learned his lesson.

 

*****

 

Bucky spent all day Friday asking around about this Moretti guy. He was hoping for something a little more helpful than Mr. Henry's vague warning to stay away from him, but it seemed like no one at school had heard of him. Either that or they just weren't talking.

Honestly, he wasn’t sure why he was bothering. Did it really matter who he was? He supposed he just wanted to know how far he should go to get the money and what would happen if he didn’t. Would Moretti just rough him up again? Break bones? Nearly kill him? Actually kill him?

He never thought he’d be glad Steve was sick, but this was about as close as he’d ever get to it. The thieves couldn’t go after Steve if Steve was laid up in bed all week. As much as Bucky was hoping he got better soon, he was also secretly hoping he wasn’t good to leave the tenement until after Monday. He felt a little guilty about that, but Steve wasn’t strong enough to take a beating like Bucky had. They might accidentally kill him without even trying.

He had one last stop to try before heading to Steve’s and then home. He was running out of time. After today, he had the weekend to get the money (or not get the money) and on Monday the thieves would be looking for him. Assuming they stuck to the one week deadline, that is.

“Hey,” Bucky hovered in the doorway to the local mechanics shop.

Billy Johnson was twenty one and he was friends with everybody. Bucky figured if anyone was going to know who Jack Moretti was, it would be him. It also helped that Bucky had defended his youngest sister when she was being picked on at school. Not that he really meant to - it was one of those times where Steve started a fight and Bucky finished it - but he wasn’t above using that event to his advantage.

Billy looked over and squinted at him. “You’re Roger’s friend, right? Barnes?”

Bucky blinked at him. He hadn’t expected to be immediately recognized. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“You wanna know about the Italians, don’t ya?” Billy tossed a greasy rag over his shoulder and didn’t smile.

“You know about that?” Bucky asked, surprised. And _the Italians?_ Mr. Henry made it sound like Moretti wasn’t anyone important, but Billy was making it sound like the opposite.

“Everyone knows about that,” Billy said. “You and your friend almost got Jack’s guys pinched. Or shot, the way they’ve been telling it. I heard you’ve been going around making trouble, asking questions.”

“How is that making trouble?” Bucky demanded, then frowned. “And where’d you hear that?” He’d only started asking questions yesterday after school, and that was only to Mr. Henry. The rest was all this morning and afternoon. How fast did word spread? “Besides, nobody’s told me anything. Who are the Italians?”

Billy’s eyebrows went up. “You don’t know nuthin’, do ya?”

“Well, what do _you_ know about it?”

Billy watched him carefully. “I know Jack’s been running his mouth all week about the little kids who snitched on his pals. I know someone heard him cursing and said it sounded like that Rogers boy, ‘cause he’s always stickin’ his nose where it don’t belong. Said he’d tattle right off if he saw someone doing something bad.”

“Steve’s not a tattle,” Bucky defended. “He just doesn’t like bullies. Or thieves.”

Billy looked unimpressed. “Well, he sure tattled on Joe and Sal, no?”

Bucky didn’t bother to argue. “What’s he gonna do? Moretti? He said I had a week to get him five bucks. What’s he gonna do if I can’t?”

“Look, kid. My sister likes you, so I’ll give you some advice. Either do what he says or make yourself scarce. Jack’s got a temper and he’s not about to let it go just ‘cause you ain’t old enough to shave yet. And owing him’s the last thing you want. He’ll have you doing him favors ‘til you’re dead or locked up.”

“So you think I should pay him,” Bucky concluded.

“Your choice, kid,” Billy started backing up. “Now get outta here before my boss finds me talking instead of working.”

“Right,” Bucky sighed. “Thanks anyway.”


	3. 1929 (Part 2)

The way Bucky saw it, he had two options. One, he asked his parents for the money. Or two, he stole it. After talking to Mr. Henry and Billy Johnson, he’d eliminated option three, which had been ignoring the problem and letting whatever happened happen. That sounded like a bad idea.

He needed the money. The problem was how to get it.

He didn’t want to steal from anyone. He liked to think he was better than that. He might have joked with Steve about being fine with stealing, but he wasn’t five anymore and he really did know better. Just thinking about it was making him feel guilty.

Also, if Steve ever found out he’d never forgive him. Bucky knew Steve. Sometimes he thought he knew Steve better than he knew himself. And what he knew was that Steve would never steal anything just because someone threatened him. Moretti could beat him until his bones broke and Steve wouldn’t give in. He was stubborn like that and he wasn’t afraid of pain. Or possibly of death, as their experience with the gun revealed.

Unlike Steve, Bucky was afraid of pain. Unlike Steve, he caved to threats. He begged. He was willing to consider stealing even though he didn’t like it.

He wasn’t like Steve. He wasn’t as good or as strong or as caring. And he was mostly okay with that, because almost nobody was like Steve. Sometimes he wondered what Steve saw in him, why he even wanted to be friends with him. Because Bucky was nothing special. That didn’t mean he was a bad person - he wasn’t - only that he was normal. Average. There were plenty of people like Bucky; there were very few like Steve.

Before he met Steve, he thought he was a good person. He was smart, he did his homework and paid attention in class, and he never got in trouble in school. Sometimes he fought with Becca when she was being annoying, but he also helped her and played with her and he was _good_. At least, his Ma thought so.

Then he met Steve and his entire definition of good was flipped on its head. By Bucky’s definition (and his Ma’s) Steve was not very good at all. He talked back to adults, he started fights, he got in trouble with teachers and parents and his Ma, and he didn’t really get along with other kids. He wasn’t ‘good’.

It took a few months after they met in that alley, but eventually Bucky realized that Steve was better than good. He got in trouble because he stood up for what he believed and spoke up when someone was wrong. He got in fights because he couldn’t watch people being hurt without wanting to help. When he saw someone doing something wrong, he wanted to stop them. He wasn’t ‘good’, but he was _good._

Now Bucky got in fights and got in trouble and his Ma (after she stopped being charmed by Stevie’s innocent looks) thought Steve was a bad influence. Now he got in messes with dangerous people who may or may not be criminals, and his Ma would definitely not be calling him good if she knew about even half of what he got up to.

Bucky was afraid that after this weekend nobody would be calling him good by any definition of the word. Because he was pretty sure he knew what option he was going to choose and it wasn’t the one that involved confessing everything to his folks and asking for help. That would’ve been the safest option, but it wasn’t the one with the happy ending.

Just like he knew Steve, he knew his Ma, and he knew she was getting dangerously close to deciding to do everything she could to separate him from Steve. Asking her for money was almost guaranteed to push her over the edge.

On the other hand, if he tried to steal the money and got caught the result would be even worse. He’d lose Steve, his family would never look at him the same, and he still wouldn’t have the money unless he begged his Ma to take pity on him. He’d probably never be allowed out of the house again except for school.

The only solution that had a happy ending was Bucky stealing the money and not getting caught. If he managed that, everything could go back to normal and he could forget this entire mess ever happened. It was a gamble, and a risky one, but it was the only way he could stay friends with Steve without disappointing anyone.

It definitely wasn’t the option Steve would choose, but he wasn’t like Steve. Sometimes that meant he had to make a different choice. And what did being good matter anyway if he was dead or crippled?

As long as he didn’t get caught, it would all work out.

 

*****

 

Problem #1000: How do you steal money without getting caught.

Bucky’s Solution: Go somewhere people won’t recognize you and be prepared to run like the devil himself was after you.

It was not the best solution. He knew that. It was, however, the best one he could come up with on such short notice. Steve would’ve had a better idea, because Steve was actually good at planning things out, but Steve was never, ever going to know about any of this. So Bucky was on his own.

His brain hurt from all the thinking and worrying about what might go wrong. He hadn’t realized how complicated stealing money would be, not until he started running into all sorts of little problems he wished he’d thought of earlier. If he could just steal from his neighbors everything would be easier, but he _knew_ all the people around him. Even if he didn’t like some of them, he didn’t think he could steal from them and then act like nothing was wrong. He wouldn’t be able to look them in the eye ever again.

Besides, all his neighbors had locks on their doors. Bucky did not have the magical ability to get past locked doors. He knew, theoretically, that it was possible to pick locks, but the chances of him figuring out how and then doing it successfully before Monday? He was more likely to miraculously find five dollars conveniently dropped on the street somewhere.

So he couldn’t rob houses, which meant he had to rob people, and if he was going to rob people it had to be people who wouldn’t recognize him. Obviously. If they recognized him he’d get arrested. Or worse, they’d tell his parents and make him give the money back, and then he’d be in trouble with both his family and Steve and he still wouldn’t have a single cent to give to the thieves.

 

*****

 

On Saturday morning, Bucky told his Ma he was going to play stickball with some boys from school (he almost said Cops and Robbers, but that felt a little too much like testing fate. He’d prefer to stay far, far away from anyone who might arrest him) and went for a walk.

A really, really long walk. East, to be specific, and in as straight a line as possible so even if he got lost all he would have to do was walk west and eventually he’d find himself again. If he walked too far west he’d just run into water and it wouldn’t be hard to figure it out from there. Just look for the Brooklyn Bridge.

He walked east until his legs started to ache, then found a busy street packed with rich businessmen, tourists, and women whose dresses probably cost more his Ma’s grocery bill for a month, and he circled it. Fulton Avenue, the street sign said. None of the people here, with their spiffy clothes and their brand new cars, would starve if they lost their pocket money. They’d be fine.

Once he had a general idea of the area, Bucky returned to the main street and sat down in front of a store to take a break. This turned out to be a terrible idea because it meant he had time to think about what he was doing. He got up after less than a minute and wandered around looking in storefronts to distract himself. He ogled the price tags and wondered if he’d ever make enough money to shop in places like this.

After about fifteen minutes, he shook his head and steeled himself. He wasn’t here to sightsee; he had a job to do.

His heart started to pound and his palms felt clammy despite the chill to the air. He didn’t think he’d ever been this scared in his life, not even when Steve got pneumonia last winter. Maybe when those thieves grabbed him, but he wasn’t thinking about that.

He had to do this. He wasn't going to give up now.

He saw what he was looking for a few minutes later - a fancy-looking lady stepping out of a store, a clutch purse loosely dangling from her hand.

Bucky jogged toward her, bumped into her, snagged the purse, and kept on going. He turned down the first side street he came to just as he heard her start yelling behind him, and broke into a sprint. She had been alone and wearing high heels, so she couldn’t chase him down herself. He was counting on the fact that most New Yorkers wouldn’t bother chasing after a stranger’s stolen purse. Even if she was a real looker. Steve would, but there weren’t too many people like Steve in the world.

Bucky zigzagged down three side streets before he skidded to a stop and ducked into a crouch behind a trash can next to an apartment building. It smelled so bad he almost kept going, but the partly-healed bruise on the back of his thigh was aching something fierce. The rest of his body didn’t feel much better.

Steve’s Ma told him no fighting or running for at least a week, he remembered. That had been four days ago. He hadn’t factored that into his plans, but it wasn’t like he could back out now. He’d just have to hope he didn’t do too much damage, or at least nothing that wouldn’t heal on its own.

So despite the way his nerves were clamoring at him to get back up and keep running, he covered his nose with a hand and huddled behind the trash cans for a tense few minutes. No one came chasing after him and all he could hear was the typical sounds of a busy New York Street. The breath of relief he let out was enormous.

His hands were shaking as he opened the purse sitting on his lap. He shuffled through it quickly, finding lipstick, face powder, a key, and one dollar and ten cents, all in coins. Bucky frowned at it. It wasn’t like he’d been expecting one lady to be carrying around five dollars, but he’d been hoping for a bit more than that. She’d looked pretty rich and she’d been shopping on her own, so it wasn’t like there was a man carrying her money around for her. Maybe she just spent it all? She had just come out of a store, after all.

Cursing his luck, Bucky slumped back against the wall, feeling uneasy. How many times could he do this before he got caught? Probably not very many. But what else could he do?

He felt a lump begin to form in his throat and punched himself in the leg, letting the pain distract him. He wasn’t allowed to cry. Doing this was his own choice and no one was forcing him. He could have asked his folks for the five dollars and solved this whole thing in minutes. He still could.

Shaking his head, he pushed himself up. He refused to go running home to his Ma to beg her for money. This would work. It had to.

He left the purse minus the money on the ground next to the trash cans, unable to bring himself to actually drop the expensive-looking thing in the garbage, and tucked the coins away in his pocket. Then he pulled in a deep breath, let it out slowly, and walked out of the alley as calmly as he could.

He walked farther east, stole another purse, and gained sixty two cents. Whoop-dee-doo.

Men carried more money, Bucky knew, but they also didn’t have purses. They carried wallets in their pockets and those were much harder to steal. And men didn’t wear high heels. They could and would chase him down. Bucky was fast, but he was also only twelve. His legs were shorter and he was only just starting to heal from the beating he’d gotten less than a week ago. He wasn’t as fast as usual.

He thought about going home and trying again tomorrow, but he didn’t think he could stand another day of this. He’d break down and go to his parents for help and he wasn’t ready to do that. He’d gone too far now to just give up.

But he wasn’t sure he could keep going on like this either. The more purses he stole, the more likely he was to get caught. Those ladies had probably already complained to the police and they might be looking for him. If the pattern of money kept up and he didn’t get lucky, he’d have to steal about three more purses to collect five dollars. He was pretty sure the most likely conclusion to attempting that many robberies was him behind bars.

Did they put twelve year olds in jail? He didn’t think so. Maybe they’d stick him in some sort of group home for delinquents. He’d heard about places like that. He’d also heard stories about thieves being beaten to death after they were caught, but he was doing his best to ignore those. People didn’t beat kids to death, thief or not. Well, the coppers wouldn’t. He wasn’t so sure about the thieves and that Moretti guy.

Was he desperate enough to try to steal a man’s wallet?

Bucky thought about it a moment and decided yes, yes he was. Maybe.

His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. He clenched them into fists and shoved them deep into the pockets of his coat.

Bucky took more time picking this target, almost a solid hour. A shorter, heavier man who wouldn’t be able to run as fast. Looser pants, so he could at least try to slip the wallet out unnoticed (a good idea in theory, but impractical- everyone’s pants looked the same). A man wearing a nicer, more expensive suit so he’d actually have money in his pocket (also difficult- he didn’t think he’d ever looked so closely at men’s clothes in his life.)

Pockets were hard to get to, Bucky realized very quickly. Too high up, too close to the front of the pants. This wasn’t going to be subtle. He didn’t have the skill for that. This was going to be a hit and _run as fast as he could_.

The fact that it ended up being even less successful than that wasn’t surprising in the least.

Bucky crept up behind the heavy-set man standing on the corner of the sidewalk and tried to slip his hand into his pocket. The man noticed, of course. Bucky’s fingers closed around the wallet only a fraction of a second before the man spun around and grabbed his arm.

Bucky panicked. Flashes of the thieves from the other night grabbing his arms and holding him down raced through his mind. He yanked his arm back as hard as he could (too hard- he unbalanced himself and started to fall) and kicked out. By luck or chance, while falling back, Bucky managed to kick the man right between the legs. He hadn’t been aiming there at all - he’d been aiming for his shin - but it sure worked in his favor.

Bucky hit the ground, scrambled back, and took off at a dead sprint while the man was busy doubling over and groaning. Shouting erupted behind him. He ducked under an arm that reached out to snag him and pushed himself faster, ignoring the screaming pain in his leg and the burn in his lungs.

He ran like his life depended on it (because in a way, it did) and didn’t even realize until a good five blocks later that he still had the wallet clutched in his hand. He coughed out one breath of an incredulous laugh, but didn’t have enough oxygen in his lungs for more than that.

As soon as that hand closed around his wrist, he couldn’t have cared less about the stupid wallet. All he cared about was getting caught and what Steve and his family would think. And maybe about not wanting to find out what it felt like to get smacked with a police baton.

He was done, Bucky decided. He didn’t care what was in the wallet. He was done.

He jogged slowly into a park, lopsided and limping heavily, and collapsed to the ground in the middle of a patch of bushes. His lungs felt like they were collapsing and his heart was pounding so hard and fast he was afraid he was going to have a heart attack and drop dead.

His hands were numb. He wondered if that was normal. Of course it wasn’t normal, who was he kidding. They were tingling like they’d fallen asleep, which didn’t make sense at all. What if the running had injured him on the inside like Steve’s Ma warned? What if he really was dying? He didn’t want to die.

Everything felt strange. Too bright. Unreal. Like this was a dream and any second now he’d wake up in bed and none of it would have happened. What was he doing?

He tore open the wallet and accidentally spilled half the money in the dirt. He snatched some of it up with stiff, clumsy fingers, but his hands weren’t cooperating and the coins kept falling back to the dirt. In a moment of dumb thoughtlessness, he added the coins from his pocket to the mess just to make things harder for himself. He picked them up, dropped them, picked them up, dropped them. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

_Breathe_ , he told himself, but that only brought his attention to the fact that he _couldn’t_ breathe. He couldn’t pull in a deep breath, only shallow, useless gasps. He felt like he was suffocating, like he was having one of Stevie’s asthma attacks and his lungs were closing up. He didn’t want to die.

He punched himself in the leg again, but it didn’t help. He could barely feel it. He dug his thumb into one of his bruises and the blinding flash of pain made him suck in a gasp, but even that only helped for a few seconds. In the end, all he could do was pull his knees to his chest, bury his face in his arms, and wait for it to be over. Either he’d die or he wouldn’t.

Gradually, the blinding terror started to lessen. His breathing slowed and evened out and he felt a little less like he was suffocating and having a heart attack at the same time. He was still shaking, and that didn’t seem like it would be stopping anytime soon, but the unsettling numb feeling in his hands faded away.

He was fine, he repeated to himself over and over again as he lifted his head. He couldn’t remember crying, but his face was wet and he swiped at it angrily. He was fine. He was being stupid. He hadn’t been caught and he might even have enough money.

At the reminder, he looked down at the money scattered across the ground and started picking it up again. He really might have enough. The man’s wallet had held three one dollar bills and a bunch of change, and he’d already had almost two dollars in coins.

Slowly and carefully, he counted up the change. Two dollars and twelve cents is what he came up with. His eyes darted over to the three one dollar bills folded in half and he felt a smile spread across his face. Five dollars and twelve cents. He pumped a fist in the air, then carefully counted up the coins again, wanting to be absolutely positive he had enough. Two dollars and twelve cents. He blew out a breath of relief.

Then he flipped through the paper bills and froze.

Very slowly, he separated them and stared. One, one, five. Seven dollars. One of the ones wasn’t a one, it was a five. He had… nine dollars and twelve cents in total.

_Nine dollars._

Bucky stared at the five dollar bill in his hand and started to laugh. And he might not have been as calm as he thought he’d been, because once he started he couldn’t stop. It rolled over him just like the panic had a moment ago and he was powerless against it. He laughed and laughed, until his eyes were watering and his chest ached and he was gasping for breath.

_Take that, assholes. I win. You lose._ He didn’t even know who he was aiming that at, Moretti and the thieves or the rich people he’d stolen from. Maybe to the world itself. It didn’t matter. He felt giddy with the thought, high on relief and triumph and disbelief. He did it. He hadn’t been caught and he had the money and he wasn’t going to get beat up again.

That thought sobered him up. The reminder of why he was out here in the first place. Because he was afraid of Moretti, afraid of the thieves, afraid of the pain, and afraid of his reaction to the pain. Steve wouldn’t have begged no matter what they did to him.

Bucky slowly tucked the money away in his pocket and shoved the wallet deeper into one of the bushes. Then he sighed and closed his eyes for a second. He wanted nothing more than to curl up and take a nap in the middle of the bushes. He could feel every single one of his bruises throbbing in time with his heartbeat.

One glance at the position of the sun hanging low in the sky and he knew he didn’t have time to rest. If he wanted to get home before dark, he had to go now. And he wanted to get home before dark.

He felt self-conscious as he picked himself up and started to walk. The park was mostly empty because people were starting to head home for dinner, but there was still a group of older kids throwing a ball around not too far away. They glanced at him as he hurried past and he felt his face heat up. Had they seen him run in and hide in the bushes? Had they heard him laughing? He hoped not.

When he made it to the sidewalk he calculated the general direction he had to walk using the sun. It set in the west and he’d walked east, which meant he just had to walk toward it. Easy, except for how walking towards the setting sun meant spending most of his time squinting at the ground.

His stomach growled after about ten minutes, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He hadn’t eaten much then either, too nervous about what he was planning to do. He thought about stopping to buy something to eat with his extra _four dollars_ , but he just wanted to get home. He wasn’t hungry anyway. Well, his stomach thought he was hungry, but he didn’t think he actually wanted to eat.

He hoped no one had noticed that nobody knew where he was. He didn’t think they would have, but it wasn’t impossible. Steve would've noticed, but Bucky doubted he was healthy enough to leave his apartment yet. His fever had gone up yesterday and Steve’s Ma had only let Bucky in for five minutes to say hello.

His heart sank when he realized he didn’t have time to stop at Steve’s. He _always_ stopped at Steve’s when he was sick, even if it was only for a few minutes to get an update from Steve’s Ma. What if he’d gotten worse overnight? What if he had an asthma attack or his fever got so high his Ma had to take him to the hospital? What if he _died?_

Bucky shook his head and concentrated on dragging one foot in front of the other.

Gradually, his surroundings grew more and more familiar until he recognized a street name and was able to piece together where he was and how to get home. He chewed on his lip as he automatically calculated the route to Steve’s, but the sun was setting too fast. Even if he only stopped there for a minute, he’d be out after dark and that thought scared him more than anything. He had a feeling it would be a long time before he felt comfortable being outside after dark.

He had to wait until tomorrow to check on Steve. He hated it, but he had no choice.

When he finally dragged himself up the front steps to his house, he took a moment to just lean against the door and breathe. Then he plastered a casual smile on his face and opened the door.

“Hey, Ma! I’m back,” Bucky called, stepping inside and spotting her by the stove.

Winifred smiled a little over her shoulder at him and Bucky tried not to slump visibly with relief. “James,” she said. “Cutting it close,” she admonished, glancing at the mostly dark sky outside the window. “Can you bring Eva and Anne to the table? They’re playing in the bedroom.”

Bucky nodded. “What’s for dinner?”

“Chicken à la King with peas and carrots,” she said, pronouncing the dish as if she were in some fancy French restaurant. She turned her back on him to tend to the stove.

Bucky blinked a little. “Great,” he said, adding more enthusiasm to the word than what he felt.

His Ma and her friends had been experimenting with new recipes lately, trading them back and forth. Some were more successful than others. This one at least smelled good, so Bucky let himself feel tentatively hopeful. He didn’t think anything could be as bad as the fish cakes from last week. Fish paste, mustard, and garlic was _not_ a good combination. He dared anyone to try to tell him differently.

 

*****

 

Bucky woke slowly the next morning to the sound of his Ma’s irritated voice calling to ask if he was up yet. He stretched lazily and pried his eyes open to blink at the ceiling, surprised he’d fallen asleep so fast and slept so deeply. He’d been half expecting he wouldn’t be able to sleep at all after yesterday.

_Steve,_ he thought a second later, and jolted up. His back twinged, protesting the quick movement, but he ignored it. Steve was sick and Bucky hadn’t checked on him once yesterday. Anything could have happened.

Bucky rolled out of bed, then paused. He glanced at Becca’s bed to make sure the room was empty, then slowly lifted his pillow and picked up the little cloth bag that used to contain marbles but now held _nine dollars_.

It was heavy and the coins jingled a little when they moved. He hadn’t imagined yesterday. So yesterday hadn't been some strange, vivid dream. It really happened.

Bucky pulled in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Steve. He had to go check on Steve.

He stepped out of his bedroom and immediately stumbled when Eva barreled into the side of his leg, Anne right on her heels. He barely had time to steady himself before the two year old stretched her arms up and started trying to climb his leg, nearly pulling his pants down in the process.

“Hey!” Bucky yelped, grabbing at his pants to hold them up. “Hey. Hold your horses.” He picked her up, grunting as the muscles in his back pulled painfully, and settled her on his hip.

Eva grinned at him. “Bay’d!”

Bucky blinked at her. That wasn’t his name. Or any other word he recognized.

“Bay’d!” she repeated. “Bucky bay’d,” she patted the side of her head.

“Braid!” Bucky grinned as he figured it out. That was a new word. “Got it. You want me to braid your hair?”

Anne tugged at his pants to get his attention, then pouted at him. “Me first.”

Eva looked down at her, frowned, then bounced on Bucky’s hip and yelled right in his ear, “Bay’d!”

Bucky winced at the high-pitched screech. “Uh,” he glanced between them. “Why me? Becca and Ma are way better at braids.”

“Becca said go away. She said ask Ma,” Anne frowned. “An’ Ma’s busy ironing. She said ask Becca.”

“It’s Sunday,” Bucky realized, slumping a little. “We have to go to church, don’t we?” That meant he couldn’t go to Steve’s until this afternoon at the earliest, because his Ma would make him stay home for lunch. She always wanted them to eat as a family on Sundays.

“Bay’d?” Eva asked, looking unbearably hopeful.

“Yeah, okay,” Bucky sighed. “I’ll try. Can’t promise I’m any good at it, but it can’t be that hard, right?”

Bucky was not very good at braids, but luckily Anne and Eva were both too young to care. Winifred gave their hair a skeptical look when she saw it for the first time, but instead of questioning it she focused her attention on Bucky.

“You need to take a bath,” she ordered, wrinkling her nose a little. “You should have done it last night. I can smell you from three feet away, James. You can’t go to church like that.”

“We’re supposed to leave in less than an hour!” Bucky protested.

Winifred just raised her eyebrows a little. “Then you better get moving.”

“I’m going,” Bucky grumbled, shuffling around her to get to the bathroom. He wasn’t going to have time to wait for the water to get hot, especially not if he wanted to eat breakfast before leaving. Which he did, obviously, because he was so hungry he felt like he hadn’t eaten for days.

As expected, his bath was lukewarm and miserable and he did his best to rush through it as fast as he could. He was ducking his head down to rinse his hair out when he heard the knock. It was instantly followed by more knocking, then pounding, and just as Bucky was wiping the water off his face and opening his mouth to yell back, the door swung open and Becca barged in.

Bucky almost jumped up before realizing that would be the worst response ever. He twisted around instead.

“Bucky!” Becca protested. “I asked if you were decent!”

“And did I say I was?” Bucky scowled over his shoulder to see she had clapped a hand over her eyes. “What’s so important you couldn’t wait five minutes?”

“I need my hairbrush,” Becca snapped. “Can I look now?”

“It’s safe,” Bucky rolled his eyes, sinking a little deeper into the water. It was cloudy with soap and dirt, which was honestly kind of disgusting. His Ma was right that he'd needed a bath. “Just hurry up. I want to get out.”

Bucky turned to stare at the wall while Becca started pulling open drawers. After at least a minute passed and she was still shuffling around, he huffed. He was starting to shiver. “How hard can it be to find your hairbrush?”

“I think Anne was playing with it,” Becca said. “And I already looked everywhere else.”

Bucky groaned. “Is it even in here? Can you grab me a towel so I can get up? I’m freezing and I want to eat breakfast sometime this century.”

Bucky heard more shuffling, followed by a towel being thrust out at him. He grabbed it, told Becca to turn around, checked to make sure she actually had, then stood up and wrapped the towel around his waist. He was still cold and dripping wet, but it was infinitely better than sitting in what now felt like ice water.

Then he heard Becca gasp. Bucky froze, instantly realizing his mistake. He whirled around.

“Don’t tell Ma,” he half-ordered, half-pleaded.

Becca stared at the bruise on his stomach, then slowly raised her eyes up to meet his. Bucky shifted uncomfortably. “I knew something happened,” she said accusingly. “Tell me.”

“Nothing happened,” Bucky said, with the faint hope that maybe she’d let it go.

Becca raised her eyebrows. “Tell me, or I’m telling Ma.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. Becca opened her mouth to yell. “Wait!” Bucky said quickly. “I’ll give you a quarter if you keep your mouth shut.”

Becca stared at him. “Where’d you get a quarter?”

_Oops._ Bucky opened his mouth, then closed it. Becca looked increasingly suspicious the longer it took him to answer. “Okay,” Bucky finally said. “Two quarters and you don’t breathe a word of this to Ma or Steve.”

“Fine,” Becca said, tilting her head a little. “But I still want to know what happened.”

“Later,” Bucky said, wanting this conversation to be over five minutes ago. “Now can you _go?”_

“I still don’t have my hairbrush.”

“Give me two seconds to get dressed, then you can have the bathroom all to yourself.”

Becca huffed. “Fine,” she said, as if she was the one doing him a huge favor by giving him two seconds to pull clothes on. She turned around and left the bathroom.

Bucky never got dressed so fast in his life. He slipped her the quarters less than five minutes later, scared she’d decide he was lying about the money and snitch on him just to get him in trouble. Little sisters were the worst.

 

*****

 

Bucky sat patiently through church, then walked home and patiently played with his sisters for an hour before lunch. He patiently sat through lunch with his family, even though by that point he felt like ants were crawling over his skin. And then finally, _finally,_ he asked to go to Steve’s.

“I don’t know,” Winifred frowned at him.

“I’ll be back before dinner,” Bucky promised. “I swear. Please?”

“Just let him go,” Becca called from the living room. “He’ll be unbearable otherwise.”

“I thought you said he was sick,” Winifred said, still looking reluctant.

“He is,” Bucky said. “Or he was. I don't know. That's why I wanna go. To see if he’s getting better or worse.”

“I don’t want you bringing any illness back here,” Winifred warned. “Eva just got over her cold.”

“I won’t,” Bucky said, staring at her pleadingly and wishing he was as good at it as Steve. “If he’s sick I won’t even go inside. I just want to check.”

Winifred sighed. “Fine. You can go. But if you’re not back in time for dinner you’re not getting any dessert.”

“You’re making dessert?” Bucky perked up, resolving to be home well before dark. “What are you making?”

“Pineapple upside-down cake,” she said, turning away.

Bucky frowned at her back. “Are we celebrating something?”

“No,” she said, and didn’t elaborate.

Bucky shrugged it off and was out the door and on the way to Steve’s only minutes later. He wouldn’t find out until almost a week later, but while his dad hadn’t lost his job, everyone at the office had had their pay cut and this was the last dessert his Ma would be making for awhile. It was also the end of most of the fancy dinner experiments, but Bucky didn’t mind that part so much.

 

*****

 

Bucky froze as soon as he reached the landing of Steve’s floor, then rushed forward to read the sign with the bright red letters. QUARANTINE, it said. SCARLET FEVER.

It was like the pneumonia all over again. People died from scarlet fever.

Bucky stared at the sign and tried to remember everything he knew about scarlet fever. All he could think about was that book Steve made him read a couple years ago about the stuffed rabbit.

Most people didn’t die, he was pretty sure. They had treatments now, didn’t they? Medicine? It wasn’t as bad as it used to be. It still wasn’t _good_ \- nothing that involved a quarantine could be good - but it wasn’t a death sentence.

Steve survived pneumonia, Bucky reminded himself. People died from that too. And it couldn’t be that bad or he’d be in the hospital, right?

Bucky raised his fist to knock on the door, then lowered it. Steve’s Ma wouldn’t let him in. She wasn’t allowed to. The sign said so. And she wasn’t going to tell him how bad it was either because she wouldn’t want to scare him. She’d just tell him Steve was going to be fine like he always was, because that’s what she always said.

Bucky slowly turned away and stepped down the stairs, feeling lost. He’d knock on the door and try to talk to Steve’s Ma tomorrow.

He couldn’t help but feel like this was his fault somehow. He went out yesterday and stole money instead of visiting Steve, and now Steve was so sick he might die. He knew it wasn’t really his fault - how could it be? - but that didn’t stop him from feeling guilty. He wanted to say he was sorry, but there was no one to apologize to. Nobody knew what he did and at this point confessing wouldn’t do anyone any good. He couldn’t return the money. He had no names and he didn’t think he could retrace his steps and find those people again no matter how hard he tried.

What was the point in confessing? So someone could tell him what he did was wrong? He already knew that. So he could be punished? Because he was pretty sure not seeing Steve for however long the quarantine lasted was more of a punishment than anything anyone else could think up.

He’d accept another beating if it meant Steve got better. But that wasn’t how it worked.

***

Bucky ignored Anne and Eva’s greetings as he trudged into their house fifteen minutes later and headed for his bedroom. He’d feel guilty about that later, but he wasn’t in any kind of mood to play games right now.

“James?” Winifred asked as he passed by the kitchen. “You’re back already?”

“What happened to you?” George asked from his seat on the couch. Bucky selfishly wished his dad was at work.

“Steve’s quarantined,” Bucky snapped. “He’s got scarlet fever.”

Everybody went quiet for a moment.

“They have treatments for that now,” George said, “Not like back in my day.”

“I know,” Bucky said flatly, just on the border of rude. “He’ll be fine.” He had to be.

He continued on to his bedroom before he could say anything he’d really regret and closed the door behind him. He laid on his bed and stared at the ceiling until he fell asleep. His Ma woke him up for dinner, but Bucky ate it listlessly, not even enjoying the cake that he usually would have devoured.

Why did everything have to go wrong all at once?

 

*****

 

The next morning, Bucky barely had time to worry about Steve. He had school, but more importantly, the one week deadline the thieves gave him was up. They could show up at any time now to demand their payment.

Bucky went to school with a five dollar bill in his pocket and spent the whole school day paranoid that he’d accidentally drop it or lose it or someone would swipe it. The rest of the money was hidden in the back of his clothes drawer, wrapped up in a pair of clean socks. It was the only place he could think of that both his Ma and his sisters wouldn’t touch. Nobody wanted to touch someone else’s socks and his Ma wouldn’t wash the clean ones.

After school ended, he spent the whole walk home looking from side to side and spinning in circles so no one could sneak up on him. He knew he must look completely screwy, but he swore he could feel eyes watching him. If he didn’t get a break from all the stress soon, he was going to end up like one of those homeless guys ranting about aliens and the end of the world.

He hesitated when he reached the steps to his house, then turned away and started walking to Steve’s. He did not take any shortcuts.

When he reached Steve’s, he turned away again instead of walking up the stairs. He started heading home again.

He felt like he was losing his mind.

Going to Steve’s was pointless when Bucky couldn’t talk to him, but he couldn’t go home and hide either. He vividly remembered the chipped-tooth man’s warning about trying to hide or skimp out.

He changed direction and went to Mr. Henry’s, but didn’t go inside there either. He walked around the block, then shifted over and circled the next block. Then he sat on the curb and wondered what to do.

He wanted to get it over with. He wanted the thieves to find him and take the money and leave him alone. Then he’d never have to think about them again. But at the same time, he wanted to run and hide and keep hiding until they forgot about him. He didn’t want to see those guys ever again. He didn’t want to see their faces and remember how they laughed at him, how they kicked him and punched him and laughed when he begged.

Bucky pushed himself to his feet and started to walk again.

He made a wider circle this time. From Mr. Henry’s to school to home to Steve’s and back to Mr. Henry’s. It was really more of a misshapen oval than a circle, but he didn’t know where else to go.

He sat down when his legs started to get tired, then got up and started walking again when his mind began to wander.

_‘Find me already,’_ Bucky thought one second, then _‘Please don’t, I take it back,’_ the next second.

He walked and walked.

And then they found him.

Well, the unfamiliar man came up behind him as he was on the school-to-home section of his circle. Bucky twisted around and spotted him while he was still half a block away and finally felt justified in his paranoia.

The man grinned when Bucky stopped walking to wait for him. He _hated_ that chipped-tooth smile.

“Thought you’d be hiding, little rabbit,” the man said as soon as he was close enough to speak without yelling.

_Rabbit?_ Was that supposed to be some kind of insult? Bucky clenched his jaw and tried not to let on how fast his heart was racing. “Are you Moretti?”

The man barked out a laugh. “I heard you’ve been asking around about me,” he said. “Who told?”

“Nobody,” Bucky said. He had a sudden urge to twist around to make sure the other two thieves weren’t sneaking up on him, but he didn’t want to take his eyes off the man in front of him.

“Loyal, are you?” Moretti asked. He started slowly walking around Bucky, making him spin in a circle to keep the man in front of him. At least now he knew no one was behind him. “Not like that little pal of yours. You’re not a snitch, are you?”

“Leave him out of it,” Bucky said, voice hard.

“He’s better at hiding than you are, I’ll give him that,” Moretti said. “He a coward too? A snitch and a coward?”

Bucky clenched his fists at his sides, resisting the urge to attack. He wouldn’t win. Moretti was a foot taller and a good deal stronger. He didn’t stand a chance, especially not when he was still all bruised up.

“He has scarlet fever,” Bucky said after a pause.

Moretti’s eyebrows went up. “You’re serious? Hell, I guess that’s punishment enough. He’s not the one I’m interested in anyway.”

Bucky’s hackles went up. “What do you mean?”

“You owe me,” Moretti said. He stopped circling and Bucky almost wished he’d start again.

“Five dollars,” Bucky said, suddenly afraid Moretti was changing the rules. “Then you leave me and Steve alone. That’s what you said.” That wasn’t exactly what he said - Steve hadn’t been part of the deal - but he needed Steve to be okay.

Moretti stepped forward. Bucky stepped back. Moretti smirked at him. “You could work it off,” he said. “I could use someone like you. Kids are underestimated. Most folk don’t look twice at ‘em. You’re not Irish, are you? You don’t look it.”

Technically, his Ma's family was from Ireland, but she didn't talk about it much and her parents died before he was born. His Dad's family was from Indiana and Bucky had no idea where they came from before that. Bucky was American, that's what his Ma always said. It didn't matter where their ancestors were from. His Dad was born in America and he was born in America and he was American.

“No,” Bucky said, more to what Moretti was implying than to not being Irish. Although he'd never really thought of himself as Irish either. Half Irish? His Ma didn't even have an accent the way Steve's Ma did.

"I'm not working for you," Bucky continued, refocusing on the man in front of him. 

Moretti’s eyes darkened. “You owe me. Remember what-”

“No,” Bucky dared to interrupt him. He jammed his hand into his pocket and pulled out the five dollar bill. He shoved it at Moretti. “Five dollars. I owe you nothing.”

Moretti actually looked surprised as he reached out and plucked the money from Bucky’s hand. “Your old man?”

“No,” Bucky said, feeling uneasy at the open surprise on Moretti’s face. He never thought Bucky would get the money, did he? He’d wanted Bucky to owe him, to- what? Work for him?

Moretti looked contemplative instead of angry like Bucky might have expected. “Where’d you get it, kid?”

“Stole it,” Bucky said, not seeing the point in hiding it. It wasn’t like Moretti could judge him for it.

Moretti laughed. “Stealing money to pay off the thieves you snitched on. That’s some damn fine irony, kid.”

“So we’re done,” Bucky said firmly, ignoring him. “You leave me and Steve alone.”

“Fair’s fair,” Moretti grinned. “Honor among thieves, right?”

“Right,” Bucky said, taking a step back. He wasn’t sure he believed Moretti was going to actually leave it there. It seemed too easy even though nothing about this had been easy.

“You ever want a job, kid,” Moretti offered, still grinning that stupid chipped-tooth grin.

Bucky spun on his heels and walked away. Turning his back on Moretti was one of the hardest things he’d ever done, but in a way it made him feel better. He wanted to show Moretti he wasn’t afraid of him and he did. It was a lie, but Bucky was getting good at lying. Sure, his heart was pounding in his chest and his nerves were screaming at him to watch his back, but none of that showed in the way he walked. He made sure of that.

Bucky’s knees wobbled as soon as he turned the corner, but he forced himself to walk another two blocks before turning into an empty lot and letting himself fall. He pulled his knees up to his chest and stared at the overgrown weeds around him. He was shaking again, but it wasn’t with panic. The absence of it, maybe, if that was possible. He didn’t feel much of anything right now. He still couldn’t believe it was over. He was half expecting Moretti to jump around the corner, say he was just fucking with him, and beat him up again.

The only one to show up was a stray cat who sniffed at him and ran away when it realized he didn’t have any food for it.

 

*****

 

Bucky floated through the month of November in a daze, which was how long it took for the quarantine to be lifted. He went to school and did his homework. He answered questions when people asked and followed orders when his Ma gave him chores, but other than that he was quiet.

He played stickball a few times near the beginning of the month, but then his friends stopped inviting him and Bucky didn’t bother asking why. He knew he wasn’t acting very fun and it was getting too cold anyway. He spent a lot of time walking around, and then, when that got too cold, he went to the library and tried to find books Steve would like for when he got better.

He walked by Steve’s everyday, but never actually got around to knocking. He kept saying he’d do it tomorrow, but he never got farther than checking to see if the sign was still there. As long as the sign was there, Steve was still alive. That was good enough.

For the first two weeks, Bucky was absolutely determined to confess everything to Steve. Even if it meant Steve didn’t want to be friends with him anymore. He should know what kind of person Bucky was.

He hadn’t originally planned on telling Steve anything, but he’d underestimated how much he’d hate the idea of keeping such a big secret. He couldn't stop thinking about those women he stole from. What if they weren't really rich and they  _did_ need the money? What if they were in trouble now and it was all his fault?

The guilt was like a heavy stone in his stomach, weighing him down and killing his appetite. Bucky spent hours hiding in his room thinking about it, snapping at anyone who tried to make him come out. Other times it was the opposite, a restless energy that made him feel like he was going to explode or scream or go mad. Those times, he paced around the neighborhood for hours, circling aimlessly until the excess energy drained away and left him exhausted.

It felt wrong that he'd just gotten away with it, that nobody knew. He almost wished he could get punished just so it'd be  _over_ and he wouldn't have to feel so bad. 

Most of all, he just missed Steve. 

*****

 

It was a Tuesday when the sign disappeared.

Bucky stood on the top stair of the landing for a long time just staring at the plain wooden door. He checked the floor in case the sign had fallen, but it wasn’t anywhere in sight.

His chest felt tight. He couldn’t tell if it was from excitement or fear. The disappearance of the sign could mean two things- Steve was better, or Steve was dead. He felt like he would somehow _know_ if Steve was dead, but even the small possibility of it terrified him.

Slowly, he stepped onto the landing and walked up to the door. He lifted a hand, hesitated, then felt stupid for hesitating, and knocked. He rocked back and forth on his heels as he waited for the door to open.

“Bucky,” Sarah smiled as she swung the door open. Bucky scanned her face anxiously. She was a little paler than normal and he thought she might have lost some weight, but other than that she looked fine. Which meant Steve was fine, right?

“Steve?” Bucky asked, trying not to sound as desperate as he felt.

“He’s fine,” she reassured him quickly. “He’s…” she frowned a little. “Well, he’s not sick anymore. He’s bored, to be honest. He’s been okay for about a week, but the State Health department has rules about this sort of thing. They don’t want to risk an outbreak.”

“Oh,” Bucky said. He felt a little dumb for not knocking on the door earlier now. Steve’s Ma could have told him Steve was fine a week ago and Bucky wouldn’t have spent an extra week worrying for nothing. “So I can see him?”

“Of course,” Sarah swung the door open and gestured him in. “Just- Nevermind. Go on.”

There was something she wasn’t telling him, but Bucky ignored it for now because Steve was standing in the doorway of the bedroom, grinning.

“Bucky!” Steve darted forward to give him a quick hug. “Your hair got longer.”

Bucky ran a hand through his hair as Steve stepped back. He was right. He needed a haircut. “Hi,” he said stupidly.

“Hi?” Steve demanded. “That’s all you got to say?”

“Uh,” Bucky couldn’t think of a single thing to say. He stared at Steve. Steve, who looked completely healthy except for being a little pale. But he was always pale, so that didn’t count.

Steve frowned at him.

Bucky waved his arms vaguely, starting to feel a little desperate as his mind remained stubbornly blank. He felt like he was going to explode in a sudden burst of emotions he didn’t know what to do with. Just _poof,_ no more Bucky. It was like all the feelings that had been absent for the past month had decided to barrel over him all at once.

Steve frowned harder. His brow furrowed.

“Hi?” Bucky finally repeated, his voice embarrassingly high-pitched.

Steve stared at him like he was nuts. It was fair, Bucky thought. He’d been feeling more than a little screwy for the past month.

“Did you get replaced by an alien while I was sick?” Steve asked, tilting his head and squinting at him.

“No?” Bucky squeaked, then snapped his mouth shut as he felt his face flush. His voice had started cracking a few months ago, but he’d never made _that_ sound before.

The corners of Steve’s lips twitched like he was trying not to laugh.

Bucky narrowed his eyes into a glare, “Don’t laugh at me, punk. I haven’t seen you for a month! A month, Steve. We haven’t gone more than a  _week_ without seeing each other since we met. And then there was a sign on your door saying you had scarlet fever and I didn’t know if you were getting better or worse and I couldn’t see you and a _month,_ Stevie! It was…” he ran out of words and trailed off.

Steve was staring at him. Sarah was staring at him too. Bucky flailed for something else to say, but his mind was uselessly blank once again. It was honestly embarrassing. He was supposed to be the one who was good with people.

Steve snickered, a wide grin blooming on his face. “You missed me?”

Bucky glared at him. “No.”

“Did too,” Steve said. His grin didn’t fade in the slightest.

Bucky glared harder. “Did not.”

“Did too,” Steve teased.

“No arguing, boys,” Sarah interrupted, but she was smiling too.

Steve grabbed Bucky’s wrist and started dragging him toward the bedroom. “Come on, you have to tell me everything that’s happened this month.”

“Not much,” Bucky said, deciding in that instant to _never_ tell Steve about Moretti.

Steve crawled onto his bed and moved to sit against the wall, pulling his blanket up to his shoulders. Bucky didn’t hesitate to crawl in next to him. He’d forgotten how cold Steve’s tenement got in the winter, and it wasn’t even officially winter yet. It was warmer inside than outside, but it was still colder than was comfortable.

“Not much?” Steve elbowed him lightly. “Come on. _Something_ interesting must have happened.”

“Not really,” Bucky said. “Eva learned how to say braid and now she wants me to braid her hair every single morning. Even though I’m terrible at it. And I found some books you might like at the library.”

“You went to the library?”

Bucky shrugged. “Wasn’t much else to do. What was- how bad was the- scarlet fever?”

Steve frowned down at the blanket and Bucky almost regretted asking. “I don’t remember the worst parts,” he said after a pause. “Ma says my fever got real high. I had the worst sore throat I’ve ever had and my skin got all red and rough. It was kind of itchy, but not as bad as chicken pox. Then it all peeled like a bad sunburn. I’m still peeling a little on my back.”

“Huh,” Bucky said.

“And I got an ear infection and now I can’treallyhearfrommyleftear.”

Bucky blinked. It took a moment to process the rush of words. “You can still hear though, right?”

Steve nodded, looking miserable. He was still staring down at his lap. “The doctor said it’s probably permanent though. My right ear’s fine, but I lost about half my hearing in my left ear.”

“Oh,” Bucky said. That must have been what Steve’s Ma wasn’t telling him earlier. “Sorry.”

“Yeah,” Steve sighed.

“Well, I’ll just make sure to talk in your right ear,” Bucky said. “And now you can ignore people you don’t like and just say you didn’t hear them.”

“Bucky!” Steve protested, but he was obviously trying not to laugh.

“What?” Bucky grinned. “You _can._ ”

Steve rolled his eyes. “You’re a jerk.”

“A smart one.”

They spent the rest of the day reading the Tom Swift book Bucky had completely forgotten about when he left it at Steve’s a month ago. His neighbors were probably mad he hadn’t returned it yet, but Bucky didn’t care.

He called his Ma after dinner and told her he was sleeping over Steve’s and she didn’t even try to argue with him. She just said ‘okay, be good’, and hung up. It was surprising, but only slightly. He knew he hadn’t exactly been the friendliest person over the past month and she was probably hoping time with Steve would cheer him up. Either that or she just didn’t want to deal with his bad mood another night.

They were both sad that night when they realized how fast they were outgrowing Steve’s bed. It was really already too small for the two of them, but they squished in anyway and agreed that the extra body heat made up for the lack of space.

 

*****

 

“Hey, Steve,” Bucky said about a week later, once Steve was back at school and everything was settled. They were on Steve’s bed again, but this time Sarah was at work. They were supposed to be doing homework, but Steve was drawing and Bucky hadn’t even written his name on his paper.

“Yeah?” Steve looked up.

Bucky hesitated and _almost_ dropped the subject, but he’d been thinking about it for weeks now and he couldn’t figure it out. “How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Stand up to bullies when you know you can’t beat ‘em? When you know they’re gonna hurt you.”

He didn’t understand how Steve did it. Bucky barely lasted five seconds before he started begging. Steve never begged. He did the opposite. He kept getting up and fighting back until he literally couldn’t get up anymore (or until Bucky showed up and chased his opponents off).

“I dunno, Buck. I just do,” Steve shrugged. “Why?”

“Doesn’t it hurt?” Bucky pressed.

“Well, yeah,” Steve’s face twisted strangely. “But something always hurts. Either I’m sick and everything hurts or my asthma’s making my chest ache. Or sometimes my back hurts- the doctor says it's crooked. And my joints hurt when it’s cold sometimes. I get headaches. Ear aches. Sometimes stuff just hurts for no reason at all.”

Bucky stared at him. “I didn’t know that. Why don’t you ever say anything?”

Steve shrugged and looked away. “Most of the time there’s nothing anyone can do to help. I’d just be complaining to complain, making everyone else unhappy too.”

“But,” Bucky said, “But doesn’t that make you want to avoid pain even _more?_ ”

“I dunno,” Steve said, looking thoughtful. “At least when I’m up against a bully it’s my choice. I know I’m gonna get hurt, but I’ve got a reason for it, you know? I hate it when stuff just hurts for no reason.”

Bucky frowned at him. “You want to get hurt?”

“No. It’s-” Steve shook his head. “You don’t get it. Nobody does. It’s like- If I’m going to hurt anyway, I’d rather it be because of something I did. Because I was helping someone or making something better. Does that make sense?”

“Kind of” Bucky said, even though he wasn’t sure he really got it.

“Besides,” Steve grinned a little, “if I let pain stop me, I’d never get out of bed most mornings.”

Bucky frowned when Steve kept grinning. “That’s not funny.”

Steve just shrugged and changed the subject. Bucky let him, but didn’t stop thinking about it for a long time. It wasn’t exactly the helpful advice he’d been hoping for. He didn’t think he’d ever be able to get used to pain the way Steve obviously had. He didn't think he wanted to anyway, not if it meant hurting all the time. But that didn't mean he had to give in to it. If Steve could handle being in pain all the time and still be a decent person, then surely Bucky could handle a little bit of pain every once in awhile to be a half-decent person.

He wanted to be brave like Steve. He didn’t like remembering how he’d begged those guys to stop hurting him. He didn't want to do bad things just because he was afraid. Steve wouldn’t have stolen the money no matter what they did to him. He would've stood up to them even if it killed him.

 

*****

 

The question of how to spend the extra four dollars was harder. Bucky knew better than to just go out and start buying whatever he wanted. That would draw attention he didn’t want and bring up questions he couldn’t answer. But he couldn’t hide it in his socks forever either. The longer he kept it there, the higher the chance was that someone would find it.

So he spent it slowly, a little bit at a time. Mostly on other people because spending it on himself made him feel even more guilty. He bought some candy and shared it with his sisters, he got a sketchbook for Steve for Christmas. He gave some of it to the homeless veteran he passed on the way to school every day. He took Steve to the theater and they watched _The Cocoanuts_ , a musical comedy featuring the Marx Brothers

He missed having money when it ran out, but not enough to risk stealing more. He’d prefer to never have to do that again.

 


	4. 1931

**August, 1931 (14 years )**

If Bucky knew growing up would be so uncomfortable, he wouldn’t have looked forward to it so much. He might have even dreaded it if he knew how awkward it would be. Pimples on his face (luckily not as many as some kids, but still), hair in strange places (not his face. He wouldn’t have minded it on his face), waking up with sticky underwear (mortifying), and his _voice._ God, his voice.

He never realized how often he sang until he couldn’t do it anymore. He couldn’t even complain about it properly without sounding like a girl, but he used to be good at singing. It was fun. He sang with his sisters, with Steve, with kids from school. He sang songs he heard on the radio, in films, on records…

Now he was afraid to open his mouth because he never knew what was going to come out. His voice had _mostly_ settled by now, but the last time he tried to sing in front of Steve he  _squeaked._  Steve, the jerk, had laughed so hard he had an asthma attack. A minor one, but still. That was the last time he dared to sing in front of anybody.

The worst part, though? It wasn't any of that. It was the hunger. He couldn’t complain about that either because too many people went hungry these days and Bucky had more food than a lot of them, but he couldn’t remember the last time he felt full for longer than five minutes. He was always hungry. He’d eat a full meal and five minutes later he’d be hungry again. It was a constant, gnawing ache in his stomach that never really went away.

His Ma said he was going through a growth spurt, but he didn’t think he’d grown much yet. All he knew was that he’d gladly sacrifice an inch or two if it meant the emptiness in his stomach would go away for awhile. He couldn’t complain about that either, because Steve would give pretty much anything to grow an inch or two.

Overall, there was a lot of complaining he wasn’t doing that he really wanted to be doing. Sometimes he felt like he was going to explode with it all, but so far he’d managed to hold most of it in. Sort of. Well, he didn’t complain about the important things, at least. Everybody complained about some things.

***

“It looks so cold,” Bucky said, staring wistfully at the people licking ice cream cones through the window of the shop. He and Steve were stuck outside on the sidewalk, baking in the late summer heat, not a single penny between them.

“We don’t have any money.” Steve tugged at Bucky’s arm, trying to draw him away from the window.

“I _know,_ ” Bucky moaned, pressing his face against the glass and ignoring the disapproving glance from the shopkeeper inside. “But look at it, Stevie. Doesn’t it look good?”

“Sure, Buck. It looks swell. Can we go now?” Steve tugged on his arm again.

Bucky sighed as he stepped back and swiped at his forehead. “I’m going to melt just like those cones. You’re gonna take your eyes off’a me for one second and when you turn around I’ll be nothing but a puddle on the ground.”

Steve snorted. “If you didn’t insist on standing here for ten minutes we could’ve been home by now.”

“But look at that, Steve!” Bucky jabbed a finger at a little girl who couldn’t be older than four holding a chocolate ice cream cone bigger than her head. “That’s just unfair. She’s not even gonna eat half of that. Most of it’ll end up melted on the ground. Or in the trash.”

Steve pulled him away from the window and this time Bucky let him. “Come on,” Steve said. “It’ll be cooler out of the sun.”

“Barely,” Bucky grumbled, dragging his feet as he walked in a way that made his Ma’s yells echo through his head. _You’re wearing out the bottoms of your shoes, James! Walk proper, James! I’m not buying you new shoes, James!_ He kept dragging his feet anyway. It was too hot to lift them any higher.

Ice cream would have cooled him right down, he thought resentfully. Breakfast had been _hours_ ago. It had to be time for lunch soon.

“One lick, Stevie,” Bucky couldn’t help but say. “That’s all I wanted. Is that so much to ask?”

“Be a little more dramatic, Buck. Your acting career will never take off if- hey!” Steve protested as Bucky shoved him.

“Shut it, punk,” Bucky held up a fist threateningly as Steve snickered. “My acting career? Since when do you and Becca gang up on me?”

“Well-”

“No,” Bucky clapped a hand over Steve’s mouth. “Changed my mind. Don’t wanna hear it.”

Steve licked his palm and Bucky jumped back, grimacing. “Gross, Steve.” He wiped his hand on his pants. “Do you know how long it’s been since I washed that?”

Steve raised his eyebrows a little as he eyed Bucky’s hand skeptically. “No. Should I be scared?”

“Don’t give me that,” Bucky whacked Steve’s shoulder. It was more of an irritated pat than anything, but he didn’t care. It had to be a hundred degrees out. “I wash my hands. Doesn’t mean they’re clean enough to _lick._ What are you, five?”

“Next time I’ll bite you instead, happy?” Steve didn’t look half as miserable in the heat as Bucky was. He was barely sweating at all. Bucky supposed being nothing but skin and bones had to have _some_ advantages, but he still thought it was unfair. It wasn’t like Bucky was fat, not even close. He was probably even a little under what was considered a healthy weight.

“No,” Bucky said, wiping the sweat off his forehead again. His hair was sticking uncomfortably to his skin. “I’m melting, I swear. Remember when we stole ice from the ice truck?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, and even he looked a little wistful.

“We should do that again."

“Do you see any ice trucks?” Steve asked. “If you want to go searching for an ice truck, go ahead, but we’re only half a block away from my- who’s that?”

Bucky followed Steve’s gaze to a man and a woman standing at the bottom of the stairs leading up to Steve’s tenement. He saw instantly why they caught Steve’s attention. They were dressed professionally, wearing clothes far nicer than anything the people around here could afford. They looked like they knew how out of place they were too. They kept glancing around nervously like they were expecting one of the homeless guys on the sidewalk to jump up and attack them.

Or, no. Bucky narrowed his eyes. They looked like they were waiting for someone. He couldn’t imagine who. “You’ve never seen them before?” he asked Steve.

“Never,” Steve said, squinting a little as he watched them. “Think we should go to yours instead?”

“Ugh,” Bucky groaned. “That’s a terrible idea. We just came from there. Can’t we just slip past them? I bet they won’t give us a second glance. They look like they’re waiting for someone.”

Steve didn’t answer, which Bucky took as a no. He tilted his head back to stare at the clear blue sky and thought about walking all the way home. He was literally going to melt. Or sweat out all the water in his body and shrivel up like a raisin. A Bucky-raisin. He huffed a laugh, then wondered if the heat was addling his brains.

“Bucky,” Steve grabbed his arm.

“What?” Bucky dropped the joking attitude the second he heard the serious tone to Steve’s voice.

“They’re looking at me.”

Bucky’s gaze snapped to the two strangers. Steve was right. They were looking at him, and as he watched, the woman gestured at Steve and said something to the man.

“We should go,” Bucky said. He didn’t like this. Not at all. What could people like that want with Steve?

“No,” Steve said, and hopped forward a step before Bucky could grab him. “I want to know what they want.”

Bucky hurried to follow because one look at Steve’s pursed lips and he knew there was no stopping him. He was getting a really bad feeling about this though. He wished they’d just stayed at his place, but he hadn’t wanted to deal with his sisters badgering him and Steve to play with them. They’d already had to sit down for a lunch party with a bunch of fake dolls, so when Anne started talking about a dinner party Bucky and Steve fled.

“Steven Rogers?” the woman asked when they got closer.

Bucky immediately hated her. She was wearing that slightly condescending look of pity a lot of adults got when they looked at Steve. Most of the time it was from people who knew how sick he got or how he was half deaf in one ear, but he wasn’t sure how this lady would know any of that.

Bucky squared his shoulders and stepped a little bit in front of Steve.

“That’s me, ma’am,” Steve said, ducking around Bucky. Bucky glared at the back of his head for a second, then decided to compromise and at least stand next to him.

“You’re going to have to come with us,” the woman said.

Bucky’s heart skipped a beat, then started to pound twice as hard as normal. “Wait, what?” he blurted out. “He’s not going anywhere with you! You haven’t even told us your name!”

“Why?” Steve asked the woman without even glancing at Bucky. Bucky would have thought Steve was ignoring him except for how Steve’s hand was now gripping a handful of his shirt. He grabbed Steve’s shirt too, just in case.

The woman’s lips narrowed into a thin line, like she was disappointed Steve hadn’t immediately complied. “My name is Judith Evergreen. I’m a social worker and we’re here to escort you to the hospital.”

Ice flooded Bucky’s veins. He barely noticed Steve tensing up at his side and almost missed the next exchange under the rushing of his blood through his ears. Hospital?

“Ma,” Steve said quietly, then demanded, “What happened?”

Judith Evergreen straightened up and glanced back at the man. She looked at Steve again. “Your mother is sick,” she said.

_No,_ Bucky thought numbly, tightening his grip on Steve’s shirt. This wasn’t happening. He was still asleep in bed and he was having a nightmare. Any second now he was going to wake up.

“I know,” Steve said impatiently. “She has a cold. Why’s she in the hospital? She was fine this morning. She has a cough, but she’s _fine._ She doesn’t have asthma, not like me.”

“We’ll explain on the way,” the social worker said, looking back at the man again. He still hadn’t spoken. He looked almost bored with the whole conversation. “But we need to get going.”

“No!” Bucky finally unfroze. He yanked Steve closer to him. “You’re not taking him.”

This time, Steve didn’t even try to resist. He stepped closer to Bucky instead, pressing into his side like he was trying to meld the two of them together. “I’m not leaving without Bucky.”

Judith Evergreen’s lips pursed. “I’m sorry, but your friend can’t come with us. We can’t take him without his parent’s permission.”

“I’ll call them,” Bucky said quickly, glancing at Steve’s building. There was a phone in there. His Ma was home. She’d say yes if he explained what was happening.

“We don’t have time,” Judith Evergreen snapped. “If you want to see your mother before she leaves, we have to go now. I’m sorry, Mr. Rogers, but your friend has to stay here.”

_Leaves?_ Bucky repeated the word in his head. Did she mean ‘leaves’ as in goes somewhere else or ‘leaves’ as in _dies?_ Why would Steve’s Ma go somewhere without him? Unless she was really, really sick and needed to go to a better hospital? He knew from Steve exactly how fast someone could go from healthy to nearly dying, and she _had_ had a cough for awhile now, but still…

“Leaves?” Steve repeated, his mind obviously on the same track. He turned to stare at Bucky with wide eyes. There was a terrified, lost look in them that Bucky had never seen before. He tightened his grip on Steve’s shirt, feeling his chest ache.

“Yes, leaves. Come on, Mr. Rogers,” Judith Evergreen said impatiently, holding out a hand like Steve was five instead of thirteen. Or like he was a dog to be coaxed out.

Bucky _hated_ her. But he didn’t think she was lying, which meant Steve’s Ma really might be leaving. And if she was leaving, then Steve had to say goodbye. He had to. Bucky didn’t know exactly what was happening here, but he knew Steve would never forgive himself if he missed his chance to say goodbye, and Bucky would never forgive himself if it was his fault for holding him back.

Slowly, Bucky unclenched his hand from Steve’s shirt and stepped back. He forced himself not to react when Steve shot him a desperate, betrayed look, like he couldn’t understand why Bucky was abandoning him.

“You have to go,” Bucky told him, not quite meeting Steve’s eyes.

“Bucky,” Steve said, tightening his grip instead of letting go.

“It’s okay,” Bucky said. He took another step back, making Steve stretch his arm out to keep his hold on Bucky’s shirt. “Go see your Ma.”

Steve stared at him a few seconds longer, then let go and turned away without another word. Bucky bit his tongue and didn’t react.

“Take me to my Ma,” Steve said quietly. He didn’t take the woman’s hand, but he did step forward.

Judith Evergreen gave Bucky an unreadable look, then placed a hand on Steve’s shoulder and led him away. The silent man followed behind and Bucky watched, unmoving, as the three of them walked away. They climbed into a car parked up the street and then they were gone.

Bucky walked home alone. The oppressive heat that had felt like the worst thing in the world only minutes ago was now the last thing on his mind. He couldn’t stop picturing Steve’s face and the betrayed look in his eyes when Bucky let go. He’d never seen Steve look so scared in his life. And what about Steve’s Ma? She had to be okay. She had to.

 

*****

 

Bucky didn’t see Steve for a week.

He got one phone call that first day, only a few hours after they were separated, from Steve at the hospital. Bucky had listened in silent horror as Steve recited in the flattest tone he’d ever heard that his Ma had tested positive for tuberculosis and was being sent to a sanatorium upstate. He went on to say she was lucky because they caught it early and she had a good chance of recovery, but that it would take at least a few months.

Bucky asked one question then, “What about you?” and immediately regretted it. Still in that same emotionless tone, Steve told him they were talking about sending him to an orphanage, but that it hadn’t been figured out yet. Apparently, most of the orphanages were either too full or they didn’t want to take a kid with as many health problems as Steve. Same with the foster families. None of them wanted a kid that almost died practically every winter. So Steve was stuck at the hospital for now while the social workers looked for somewhere to put him and made sure he hadn’t caught TB from his Ma.

For the rest of the week, Bucky was torn between desperately wanting Steve to call again, and never wanting to receive a call like that ever again. He was worried about Steve and worried about Steve’s Ma and helpless to do anything about any of it.

Bucky kept himself from completely losing it by reminding himself that while Steve might be absolutely miserable wherever he was, he was unlikely to be literally dying. Usually when Bucky couldn’t see Steve for a week it was because he had pneumonia or scarlet fever or something along those lines, and there was always a possibility he’d show up at Steve’s door and find out he hadn’t made it through the night. This time, Steve was unlikely to have gotten sick in the past few days and even his asthma wasn’t too bad this time of year. So Steve was most likely physically fine wherever he was. It was a small comfort.

“Bucky,” Winifred finally said on the fourth day. She hovered over where he was sprawled out on the couch and frowned at him.

She caught his attention immediately because she rarely called him Bucky instead of James. He swung his legs off the couch and sat up. “Yeah?” He hoped he wasn’t going to be asked to wash the dishes again. He hated washing the dishes. Somehow all the little bits of food stuck to the plates got a thousand times more disgusting once they were in the sink.

“Get out of the house.”

Bucky blinked at his Ma. “What? You can’t- Are you kicking me out?”

“Yes, I am,” Winifred said bluntly, frowning down at him. “It’s the middle of the afternoon, the weather is beautiful, and you have friends other than Steve.”

“But Steve-” Bucky started to protest.

“I know,” she interrupted. “If he calls, I’ll answer it.”

“But, Ma-”

“No.”

“But-”

“No. Out, now,” Winifred pointed at the door, her face set.

Reluctantly, Bucky pushed himself up off the couch. “If Steve calls, make sure you ask him where he is. He said they might be sending him to an orphanage.”

“I know, James.”

“Can’t he just live with us?” Bucky blurted out.

Winifred looked a bit taken aback by that question, but all she said was, “We can’t afford another mouth to feed. You know that.”

Bucky sighed, because he did know, but it wasn't _fair._ He knew that bad things could happen to anybody - he'd learned that with Moretti and the thieves - but why did  _so many_ bad things have to happen to Steve? He was the best person Bucky knew. Didn't he deserve a break once in awhile? He already had to deal with being sick all the time and not being able to do stuff that all the other kids their age could do. He shouldn’t have to deal with his Ma being sick and being sent to an orphanage on top of that. And what if they sent him to one really far away and they never saw each other again? It wasn’t fair.

“Out, James Buchanan Barnes,” Winifred said firmly, her patience apparently gone. “And you’re not allowed back until dinner.”

“Ma!” Bucky protested. “That’s not for four hours.” What if Steve called and Bucky wasn’t there to answer?

Winifred just stared at him expectantly until Bucky slumped out the door. She shut it behind him the second he stepped through and turned the lock. Bucky spun around to stick his tongue out and make a face at the door, then stomped down the front steps.

He begrudgingly joined a game of kick the can with a group of younger boys a few blocks over and felt extremely resentful when he realized running around helped get rid of the ants-under-his-skin feeling that had been driving him insane since Steve got taken away.

He left the house for at least a few hours in the afternoon after that, but also made sure his Ma knew he wasn’t doing it willingly. He didn’t care if staying home made him twitchy, he wanted to be there when Steve called.

 

*****

 

In the end, Steve never called at all. He showed up at Bucky’s door in the middle of the day exactly one week after he disappeared. It was only luck that Bucky was still home. His Ma had been making moves to throw him out for the past hour, but he'd managed to avoid her by hiding in Eva and Anne’s bedroom and playing with their dolls with them. It wasn’t exactly fun, but he’d really, _really_ been hoping Steve would call.

So when Bucky swung the door open and saw Steve, he lunged forward and hugged him so hard he actually heard the air rush out of Steve’s lungs. He might have worried he was squeezing too hard, but Steve squeezed back just as hard. His arms were like bands of iron around Bucky’s chest, which was honestly impressive considering how skinny he was.

After a long moment, they both pulled back without letting go completely and Bucky dragged Steve through the house to his bedroom. He closed the door before his Ma or Anne or Eva could follow. Becca was out with friends, so he didn’t have to worry about her barging in.

“Where’ve you been?” Bucky asked as soon as the door clicked shut. He pulled Steve over to his bed and they both collapsed onto it in a tangled heap before twisting around to sit. “I was starting to think I’d never see you again.”

“No phones at the orphanage,” Steve said. “And they didn’t want me going out on my own. I climbed out the window.”

Bucky blinked at him, then scowled. “What is it, a prison? They can’t keep you locked up! That’s not right.”

“It’s not that bad of a place,” Steve said, looking far less bothered about the whole thing than Bucky thought he should be. “Really,” he added when he saw the way Bucky was looking at him. “It could be a lot worse. It’s a small place and it’s in Brooklyn. Only ten blocks from here. St. Anne’s. It’s Catholic.”

“Ten blocks?” Bucky repeated. “That’s double the distance we used to be.”

Steve shrugged and looked down. He started picking at the frayed strings along the edge of Bucky’s sheets. “It could be worse,” he said. “I almost ended up outside of Brooklyn. And everyone seems nice there. Well, mostly. It’s just… they keep treating me like I’m gonna fall apart if I move too fast.”

Bucky frowned, knowing exactly how much Steve hated being treated like he was fragile. “It’s ‘cause they don’t know you yet,” he told Steve. “I bet they got a bunch of scary medical words from the hospital and they don’t want to do anything wrong. They’ll learn.”

Steve didn’t look up, but he did look a little less miserable. “I guess,” he said.

Silence fell and Bucky searched for another topic, since Steve didn’t seem eager to talk about much of anything. He seemed content to just sit and pick at Bucky’s sheets, which was mildly disturbing on multiple levels. Steve wasn’t supposed to be _quiet,_ not like this. It wasn’t natural.

“Are you mad at me?” Bucky blurted out before he could stop himself, remembering again the betrayed look on Steve’s face the last time they saw each other.

Steve looked up and finally showed some hint of emotion. It was confusion, but it was better than nothing. “What do you mean? Why would I be mad?”

This time it was Bucky’s turn to look away. “I don’t know. Because I didn’t try harder to go with you when those people took you? I just- I didn’t want you to miss seeing your Ma. It didn’t look like they were going to let me come and I didn’t want to-”

“No,” Steve interrupted, shaking his head hard. “Bucky, no. I was never mad about that. I was worried about my Ma and I didn’t know what was happening and… I’m not mad.”

“Oh,” Bucky said. He tried not to let on how relieving it was to hear that. “Have you heard anything from her?”

“No,” Steve said, smoothing his expression back out into that eerily emotionless mask.

Bucky looked away, disconcerted. His stomach sank. That had obviously been the wrong question, but the way Steve didn’t react _at all_ couldn’t be good or normal. Bucky opened his mouth to say something, but couldn’t think of a way to put it into words that wouldn’t sound rude or accusing. He couldn’t exactly ask Steve to ‘please show a tiny bit more emotion because you’re making me uncomfortable.’

“What about the other kids?” Bucky decided a change of topic was the best approach.

“There’s thirteen of them,” Steve explained. “I told you- it’s a small place. We’re divided up into three rooms for beds. Five kids in the ten and under room, and then the older kids are divided into boys and girls. Four girls, and four boys. Five, if you count me.”

“And what are they like?” Bucky pressed. “Nice? Bullies? Did you make any friends?”

“The younger ones are nice,” Steve said, and didn’t elaborate.

“And the older ones?”

Steve didn’t meet his eyes. “They’re… not bad. I’m the new kid.”

Bucky stared at Steve and Steve stared at Bucky’s sheets. “Have they hurt you?”

“No,” Steve said quickly. “They haven’t. They’re just… not as friendly as they could be. There’s less space in the room now. They’re not happy about that, and I can’t blame them. Five beds in one room is real cramped.”

Bucky wasn’t sure what to say to that. He used to complain about sharing with Becca, but she’d moved into the other bedroom with Anne and Eva about a year ago. He couldn’t imagine having to share a room with four other boys.

“What about school?” Bucky asked, because that was set to start in less than two weeks.

“They said I can keep going to the same one since it’s my last year, but that it’s up to me.”

“Why wouldn’t you want to keep going to the same school?”

Steve shrugged and started pulling at the strings again. “I might. But it’s an eight block walk and that’ll be hard in the winter. And I’d be walking alone- all the other kids at the orphanage go to the Catholic school a few blocks away. And you’re not going to be there anyway. You’re starting high school.”

“So?” Bucky frowned at him. “I’m not your only friend. Your best friend, maybe, but there’s still Tom and Arnie and aren’t you sort of friends with that girl? Kathy?”

Steve just shrugged again.

“You don’t care?” Bucky asked, starting to feel more than a little frustrated. He wanted to rip the sheets out of Steve’s hands and force him to… to _something._ It wasn’t like he wanted Steve to start crying, but _some_ reaction would be nice.

“I should go,” Steve suddenly said, shifting to slide off the bed.

Bucky gaped at him a second before jumping up to follow. “You just got here! It hasn’t even been half an hour.”

“I wasn’t supposed to leave at all,” Steve said lightly. “I climbed out a window, remember? And it’s a long walk.”

“I’ll come with you,” Bucky decided. “I want to know where it is anyway. You said it’s called St. Anne’s, right?”

“No,” Steve said.

Bucky paused. “What do you mean no? It’s not St. Anne’s? Or you don’t want me to come with?”

Steve didn’t meet his eyes. “It’s St. Anne’s, but I’m already going to be in trouble for sneaking out. It’ll be worse if I bring someone with me.”

Bucky frowned at the side of Steve’s head. _Look at me,_ he thought. “Then I won’t go inside. I can still walk with you.”

Steve hesitated, then said, “I guess.”

Steve didn’t want him to come, Bucky realized. Not even to walk with him. He spun around and pretended to fix the sheets on his bed while he tried to control his expression. Steve had enough to deal with already. Bucky was supposed to be supportive, not start an argument.

When he turned back around, Bucky was afraid his expression might be as blank as Steve’s, but it was better than the alternative. If it was anyone other than Steve in front of him he would have faked a smile, but Steve had always been able to see right through him. His own family didn’t notice when he was faking half the time, but Steve almost always knew. So he aimed for somewhere in the middle- neither smiling nor not smiling.

“Come on,” Bucky said, tilting his head at the door.

Steve hesitated for a fraction of a second, then followed along like nothing was wrong.

The walk to the orphanage was silent. Bucky tried to start up a conversation in an attempt to lighten the mood, but Steve’s one-word responses were the opposite of helpful. After about a minute he gave up, afraid his voice might crack.

He didn't want to be upset with Steve. It wasn't his fault, not really. His Ma was sick and he'd been sent to an orphanage. If that wasn't a good excuse for acting like a bit of a jerk, then nothing was. But understanding that didn't make it any less frustrating to deal with.

The orphanage was a two-story rectangular building on the corner of two streets. It looked more like a big house or maybe an apartment building than an orphanage, but Bucky wasn’t sure what an orphanage was supposed to look like. He’d never paid much attention to them before.

Steve left him on the sidewalk after a short wave goodbye, and then Bucky was alone again. He stared up at the rather plain-looking building, then slowly turned around and started walking home.

He didn’t know what to do.

 

*****

 

“Hey, Ma?” Bucky asked when he got home later, after making sure none of his sisters were in hearing distance “Are you busy?”

Winifred set down the dish she was washing, looked at him, and frowned. “Nothing that can’t wait.”

“I don’t know-” Bucky paused, not sure how to voice the question. “Steve’s…”

His Ma sighed. “You want to know how to help.”

Bucky nodded.

“You can’t,” she said. “Not the way you want to. I know that’s not what you want to hear, but you can’t bring his mother back, and you can’t make everything normal again. He’s hurting right now, and there’s nothing you can do to make that better.”

“But there has to be something I could do,” Bucky argued.

Winifred was quiet for a moment, just looking at him. Bucky shifted uncomfortably, but waited stubbornly for a response. There had to be _something_ he could do to help, but he didn’t know what and the last thing he wanted to do was make things worse.

“Just be his friend,” his Ma finally said. “You can try to cheer him up sometimes, but it’s not always going to work. His mother’s gone. She’s still alive, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s alone and he’s lost almost everything he had. Sometimes he’s going to be upset and you’re just going to have to let him be.”

“He’s not alone,” Bucky said. “He has me.”

His Ma smiled a little, but it was a sad smile. “He has you,” she agreed.

“Thanks, Ma,” Bucky nodded and turned to go to his bedroom.

He flopped down onto his bed and stared at the ceiling. _‘Be his friend,’_ his Ma said, but how was Bucky supposed to be his friend if Steve wouldn’t talk to him? And she said Steve would be upset sometimes, but he hadn’t seemed upset. He’d just been… blank. What was Bucky supposed to do with that? She was right that cheering him up hadn’t seemed to work, but he wasn’t sure ‘letting him be’ was the right answer either.

 He still didn't know what to do. He still didn't think it was fair. His Ma's advice wasn't actually all that helpful.

*****

 

Bucky decided to try cheering Steve up again. He hadn’t tried that hard the first time; he’d been more focused on getting information. But now that he knew where Steve was and he wasn’t going out of his mind wondering what was happening, he had time to come up with a plan.

It would have to be something special. Something distracting. Talking obviously wasn’t good enough and he couldn’t see Steve wanting to play stickball or kick the can or any of the street games Bucky liked to play.

What did Steve like doing? What made him happy?

The library, but that wasn’t distracting enough. They went there all the time. He liked drawing, but that wasn’t very distracting either and he did that all the time anyway. They had no money to go to Coney Island.

Cake? Dessert always made Bucky happy, but he doubted his Ma would agree to waste money baking a cake just to cheer Steve up. He didn’t think she’d bake a cake to cheer anyone up, not when they were barely getting by with normal groceries. Nobody had money to waste these days. So cake was a no.

The pictures, Bucky decided. Films were definitely special enough to be distracting. And while they did cost money, it wasn't nearly as much as Coney Island and he might be able to get around that. He'd heard a few of the neighborhood boys talking about sneaking into the theater, so he’d just have to track them down and get them to tell him how they did it.

If that didn't work out, he'd just have to think of something else.

 

*****

 

Tracking the boys down turned out to be harder than he thought it would be. They were a year younger than him (in Steve's class) and Bucky wasn't exactly friends with them. He was pretty sure he’d threatened every single one of them at some point to dissuade them from bullying Steve. Right now, they had an unspoken agreement where they left Steve alone and Bucky left them alone.

It took him two days to find them, and he should have known that would be the easy part. 

“Why should we tell you?” Ernie asked, eying him suspiciously. Two of his friends were flanking him like they were afraid Bucky was there to beat them up, and there were two younger boys huddled behind them.

“’Cause I asked nice?” Bucky offered, trying to convey non-aggression.

Thanks to Steve, Bucky was starting to get a reputation as a fighter. Unfortunately for him, the gossip didn't seem to include the fact that he was rarely the one to  _start_ the fight or that the majority of the people he fought with were bullies. He wasn't really sure how he felt about the whole thing. On the one hand, having that sort of reputation could be useful, but other times - like right now - all it did was cause problems.

“And what happens if we said no?” Will, the boy on Ernie’s left, asked.

Bucky frowned, not sure what to say. He really wanted them to answer his question, but he wasn’t a bully. He wasn't going to rough them up if they said no. And anyway, five against one was just bad odds.

“What do you want?” Bucky finally asked, hoping he could make a deal.

All the boys’ eyes lit up and they quickly exchanged looks. “Give us a minute,” Ernie said, and the group backed away a few feet to huddle up and whisper.

Bucky eyed them, feeling like he’d just gotten in way over his head. He was going to regret this, wasn’t he?

“You know Vince Bennet?” Ernie asked a minute later.

“Yes,” Bucky said cautiously. “Why?”

“We want you to punch him in the face,” Ernie said.

“Hard!” one of the younger boys piped up.

“Real hard!” the other one said.

Bucky stared at them. “You want me to… punch Vince in the face? Why?”

“He’s a jerk,” Will scowled. “He keeps stealing Jim and Ben’s lunch money and last week he gave Jim a black eye. For no reason! He already had his money, he just punched him just ‘cause!”

Bucky felt the oddest sense of deja vu. Somewhere around four years ago, hadn’t Bucky broken Vince’s nose for something similar? Or no… Vince hadn’t been the one stealing Steve’s lunch money - that had been someone else - but Vince had been part of the group that decided to kick Steve around just for being friends with Bucky.

Bucky considered saying no. He was pretty sure agreeing to punch someone to get information on how to sneak into a theater was not something Steve would approve of. On the other hand, Vince was a real jerk and it sounded like he deserved a good punch in the face. …And he really wanted to know how to sneak into the theater.

It wouldn't be the worst thing he'd ever done.

“Okay,” Bucky said, setting off a burst of surprise, disbelief, and glee.

“Really?” Will bounced on the balls of his feet, grinning wide. “You’ll do it?”

“Sure,” Bucky shrugged. “If you can get me and Steve into the theater without paying.”

“That’s easy,” Ernie waved him off. “Jim’s older brother works there as a cleaner. He sweeps the floor and stuff. He can sneak you through the back door.”

Bucky grinned. “It’s that easy?”

Ernie frowned at him. “He can’t do it often or he might get caught. This is just the once, yeah? And only if you get Vince real good.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” Bucky said. “I already broke his nose once.”

“That was you?” Will’s eyes went wide. “He never said who did it. We all thought it was someone older.”

“Uh,” Bucky rubbed at the back of his neck, uncomfortable with the way they were all staring at him now. “That was me, yeah. He was messing with Steve.”

Ernie rolled his eyes. “’Course he was. Shoulda known it had to do with Rogers. Vince and Frank avoided him like he had the plague after that. But Rogers missed a bunch of school right after, so we thought he might actually have the plague.”

“Pneumonia,” Bucky said, then paused. Was that the year he had pneumonia? Or was that the year after? Scarlet Fever came after the pneumonia, so it wasn’t that. He shrugged it off after a moment. Steve was always sick with something in the winter, didn’t really matter which year was what as long as he survived.

 

*****

 

So then Bucky had to track down Vince, because of course nothing could be easy. Unlike with the younger boys, Bucky knew exactly where Vince lived, which would have been helpful if he was ever home during the day. He was not.

In the meantime, another day passed with no word from Steve. Bucky couldn’t help but wonder if that was because Steve wasn’t allowed out or because he didn’t want to see Bucky. He was starting to think Steve might have lied when he said he wasn’t mad at him. It hadn’t sounded like a lie at the time, but unlike what most people assumed, Steve wasn’t a bad liar. He hated lying, which made him hesitate when he wasn’t sure if he wanted to or not, which made it obvious he was lying. But when he actually wanted to lie, he could do it with the best of them.

When he finally found Vince, he was with Frank and the two of them were throwing rocks at a stray cat they’d cornered between a building and a fence.

“Hey!” Bucky shouted, stalking forward. “What did that cat ever do to you?”

Vince and Frank spun around, looking startled and a little guilty. Well, Frank looked guilty. Vince smirked. “It hissed at me.”

“So you throw rocks at it?” Bucky demanded. Hurting animals was worse than hurting humans in his opinion.

“It’s just a stray,” Frank said, as if that made it okay. “Go away, Barnes. Don’t you have a more human-shaped stray to defend?”

“Some people eat cats,” Vince said.

Bucky ignored Frank in favor of staring at Vince. If he was trying to unsettle him, it wasn’t going to work. “People will eat anything if they’re hungry enough. Doesn’t mean hurting them is okay.”

“What do you want?” Vince snapped. “Go preach your morals at someone else.”

“Let the cat go,” Bucky said, only to realize the cat was nowhere in sight. It must have taken advantage of the distraction and bolted.

Vince scowled, realizing the same. “Beat it, Barnes. You got what you wanted.”

Bucky still owed him a punch, so no, he hadn’t gotten what he wanted. “You want me to leave?” he asked. “Make me.”

Vince’s eyes snapped to his, heated and intent. Challenge accepted. Bucky balanced himself on the balls of his feet and let himself grin. He hadn’t come here planning on fighting - one good punch was all he agreed to - but at the moment a fight sounded like exactly what he wanted. He could let out some of the frustration of the Steve situation without doing anything that would hurt Steve.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky saw Frank shake his head and take a step back, but he didn’t take his eyes off Vince. Frank had been throwing rocks too, but he’d bet anything that Vince started it. Frank was a follower. Always had been, probably always would be. And Bucky would know- he’d been friends with the both of them for years before he met Steve.

Vince clearly got impatient waiting for Bucky to make a move, because a second later he charged at Bucky with the full force of all of his rage. Which was a lot of rage. Bucky’s eyes went wide and for half a second he froze, feeling an awful lot like that stray cat must have when two giants cornered it and started throwing rocks at it.

Vince, at almost sixteen, had grown since the last time Bucky saw him and had to be at least six feet tall now, which was about half a foot taller than Bucky. He was thin and gangly in that awkward stage between boy and man, but the unrestrained anger in his eyes made something inside Bucky want to cower in terror.

Just before he got plowed over, Bucky threw himself to the side. He staggered slightly from the rushed dodge, then spun on his heels and raised his fists. Vince hadn’t been thrown off by the miss and was ready and waiting. They stared at each other.

This time, Bucky swung first. He wasn’t expecting to land the punch, and he didn’t, but neither did Vince. They were testing each other, feeling each other out. Bucky might be in over his head, he realized.

Then the fight started in earnest and there was no time for regrets. Bucky moved with hard-won instincts, ducking and blocking where he could, and taking hits when he couldn’t.

They were surprisingly evenly matched. Vince wasn’t like most of the bullies Bucky went up against who were used to intimidating smaller targets, but didn’t know what to do when they were faced with someone who could fight back. Vince could fight.

He fought dirty too, Bucky acknowledged as he leapt back from what would have been a kick right between the legs. He paused there to give Vince a _look,_ but after that he didn’t hold back on any of his own dirty tricks. If Vince wanted to play it that way, he’d better be prepared to take it.

It all went downhill from there.

It was the most violent fight, by far, that Bucky had ever been a part of. It was long, too. Most fights seemed to last forever while they were happening, but in reality were over in less than a minute. Seconds, most of the time. A few good hits, someone starts bleeding, and that’s it. Well, not this time.

Bucky had nothing against a little blood, and he’d been in enough fights not to let a few bruises faze him. Vince, it seemed, was the same. And neither were willing to lose.

Eventually, they ended up rolling around in the dirt, grappling for position on top. By that point, Bucky was panting for breath and his mouth tasted like metal, but his blood was pumping so hot through his veins that pain and exhaustion were distant memories. He’d never felt more alive.

Then, in a split second, Vince was on top of him, a big rock in his hand and fire in his eyes. He raised his arm and swung down. Bucky snapped his hips up with all the strength he had, unbalancing Vince just enough that what might have been an actual _killing_ blow missed. The rock slammed into the ground an inch away from Bucky’s ear and Vince growled in frustration.

Bucky didn’t hesitate. While Vince was still off-balance, he rolled them until he was on top and pressed his forearm into Vince’s throat. The older boy tried to throw him off, then started hammering Bucky’s ribs with his fists, but Bucky gritted his teeth and clung on with everything he had.

Slowly, Vince’s struggles got weaker and weaker. His face turned red and his mouth opened in a futile attempt to gasp for air. Bucky stared him in the eye and thought, _I’m killing him._ Vince tried to kill him first, so it was fair.

Bucky waited one more second, then rolled off the taller boy and stared up at the sky, panting as he tried to catch his breath. He listened to Vince cough and suck in deep, shaky lungfuls of air.

“I win,” Bucky said after a moment, feeling strangely giddy. He had to hold back a laugh.

“You almost killed me,” Vince choked out a few seconds later.

“You almost killed me first,” Bucky pointed out. Staring up at the sky, he sort of felt like he was floating, like he’d detached himself from his own body. No pain, no fear, just the clear, blue sky. He knew from experience that he had about a minute or two until the pain kicked in, but until then there was nothing but the rush of winning.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Frank burst out from somewhere to Bucky’s left. “That was- that was- fuck, you’re both fucking nuts. Off your rockers.”

Bucky let out a startled laugh and twisted his head around to glance at Frank without getting up. He’d forgotten he was even here. He looked horrified, and Bucky laughed again.

“That was fun,” Vince said. His voice was raspy, and he coughed again. “Except for the part where you _almost killed me._ Thought I was a goner for a second there.”

“You almost bashed my head in,” Bucky argued without any heat. “You’re good,” he added a second later. “At fighting.”

“You beat me,” Vince rasped.

“Barely,” Bucky said, and he wasn’t lying.

“We should do it again sometime, Barnes.”

Bucky snorted. “Yeah, sure. Once a month. We’ll meet up and fight to the death.”

“Didn’t kill me,” Vince said, then taunted, “You don’t have it in you.”

“You should be glad, or you’d be dead right now.”

“True,” Vince said. He didn’t sound very upset about it.

“Jesus,” Frank mumbled. “What is _wrong_ with you?”

“Me or Barnes?” Vince asked.

“Both of you!”

Bucky laughed again, then groaned and clutched at his ribs. His minute was up and a deep ache was starting to set in, highlighting all the bruises he was sure to have. He should probably get up before he couldn’t get up at all.

“You _bit_ me,” Vince suddenly said, sounding almost comically offended. “I have teeth marks on my arm.”

“You deserved it,” Bucky said, and absolutely meant it. “You don’t hurt animals. It’s wrong.”

Vince shoved himself up to give Bucky an incredulous look. “You don’t want me to hurt a cat, but you’re fine with the two of us beating the crap out of each other.”

“I can defend myself.” Bucky slowly sat up, grimacing as what felt like his entire body throbbed in pain.

“So can cats,” Vince said. “They have claws. And teeth.”

“It’s wrong,” Bucky insisted. “Animals are innocent in a way people aren’t.”

“You’ve been spending too much time with Rogers," Vince said with a sneer.

“Steve didn’t teach me that. It’s just wrong. You don’t hurt animals.”

“Dry up,” Vince said. Frank pulled him up to stand. “Preach to someone who cares.”

Still a jerk, then. Bucky’d almost forgotten for a moment there. He pushed himself to his feet so he wouldn’t be the only one on the ground, but Vince and Frank were already turning to leave.

“I’ll see you around!” Bucky called at their backs.

They both ignored him, but Bucky didn’t let it bother him. He turned his attention to the five blocks he had to drag his aching body home and tried not to think about the lecture he was about to receive.

 

*****

 

Bucky’s plan had to be delayed for three days after the fight. Not because he was so injured he couldn’t move - although he was definitely hurting - but because his Ma decided to punish him by making him do the laundry. And unfortunately for him, there was a lot of it. She’d started doing laundry for the neighbors and a few of her friends when his dad’s pay was cut about a year ago because it was something she could do at home while watching Eva.

So for three days, Bucky did all the work while his Ma supervised. Slave labor, he called it. She just told him to scrub Mr. Denton’s pants harder or he’d never get all the dirt out. Mr. Denton worked construction, but his pants looked more like he stomped around in mud all day, then rolled around in it for good measure. Just in case he missed a few spots.

Finally, on Friday, Bucky was free to make the trip to St. Anne’s. The walk felt longer than he remembered it being, but he didn’t let that bother him. He’d walk twice as far if it meant he got to see Steve at the end. He missed Steve.

Did Steve miss him? At all? Sometimes it seemed like their friendship was more important to Bucky than it was to Steve, but other times he felt like an idiot for ever thinking that. This was one of those times where he wavered back and forth.

He wasn’t sure what to do when he reached the orphanage, so he just walked up to the door and knocked. The worst they could do was tell him to scram. It would be cruel if the kids weren’t allowed visitors though. Even criminals in prison were allowed visitors, he was sure.

The door swung open before Bucky could think too hard on it.

A thin, older woman peered out at him. She was dressed as a nun and Bucky couldn’t help but stare for a second. Somehow, he hadn’t connected Steve’s explanation of this place being a Catholic orphanage with it being run by nuns. He felt a little dumb now for being surprised. Of course a Catholic orphanage would be run by the church.

“Hi,” Bucky said. He waffled over what a proper greeting would be - he had little experience with talking to nuns (He went to church every Sunday, but not a Catholic one) - before barreling on when he saw her purse her lips and eye the bruises on his face. “I’m here to see Steve? Steve Rogers. He got here about a week ago?”

She narrowed her eyes a little. “I suppose you’re the friend he slipped out the window to visit?”

Bucky froze for a moment, speechless, before giving her a sheepish smile. “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry. Don’t blame him though. He just wanted to tell me where he was and what happened. We’ve been friends for years and I was going nuts not knowing where he was or if he was okay, and-”

The older woman held up a hand to stop him. She was smiling a little now, which Bucky took as a good sign that he wasn’t in trouble. “I understand,” she said. “Steve’s talked about you.”

“He has?” Bucky was surprised. “Can I see him? Please?”

“In a minute,” she said. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. You haven’t even introduced yourself, young man.”

Bucky felt his face flush. “James Buchanan Barnes, ma’am, but Steve calls me Bucky. Sorry. Again. I guess I got a little excited about seeing Steve.”

“You can call me Sister Catherine.”

Bucky nodded. “I was wondering, actually, if I’d be allowed to take Steve out today? See, my Ma gave me money to go to the pictures. I wanted to do something fun with Steve, to cheer him up, you know? Because of his Ma and the orphanage. Not that I think this is a bad place, but-”

Sister Catherine held up a hand to stop him again. Bucky bit his lip, afraid she was about to say no. He probably should have waited until the bruises were gone, but he hadn't wanted to wait that long. He was starting to regret his impatience now. Sister Catherine had the power to make seeing Steve very difficult for him if she decided she didn’t approve of him. He needed her to like him.

…And he’d just lied straight to her face without a single second of hesitation. He was going to hell, wasn’t he? Lying to nuns had to be pretty far up there on the list of Things You Just Don’t Do.

“That sounds like an excellent idea,” Sister Catherine said. “Steve is lucky to have a friend like you.”

Bucky paused a second, trying to remember what she was replying to. He’d lost track of the conversation. “I’m the lucky one,” he said after a moment. He never understood why nobody else saw it that way. Bucky was normal. Average. Steve was the special one.

“You’ll have to have him back before five,” Sister Catherine said, looking stern for a moment.

Bucky nodded eagerly, grateful she was saying yes at all. Steve had made it sound like he was locked up here, but either something had changed or he'd been exaggerating. It was only noon now, so five hours was plenty of time.

Bucky tried not to fidget impatiently as Sister Catherine led him slowly down the hall, but it was hard not to. He was nervous that Steve wouldn’t want to see him, or that he’d be angry Bucky showed up without his asking. If the orphanage hadn’t locked him up, then why hadn’t Steve come to see him?

Sister Catherine led him to a large room at the end of the hallway. It looked rather plain at first glance. The walls were white and the floor was wood. There wasn’t much furniture except for a few small chairs and tables up against the far wall.

The toys and games strewn across the floor brightened it up and the kids were almost startlingly loud. Their voices echoed in the large room, talking and laughing and yelling.

It seemed like a nice place, to be honest. Fun and welcoming. Bucky had been imagining something much worse, with strict rules and punishments for breaking them. These kids didn’t sound like they were afraid of breaking the rules at all. The opposite, really. It looked more like the adults were having trouble keeping control of all the kids.

Bucky scanned the room and spotted Steve seated on the floor in front of two little girls. There was a chess board between them, though the girls couldn’t be older than six or seven. He didn’t know Steve knew how to play chess. Was he teaching them or were they teaching him? Or were they all just messing around?

Sister Catherine hurried off towards a younger boy who’d fallen and was starting to cry, abandoning Bucky in the doorway without another word.

Bucky pulled in a deep breath and stepped into the room. He picked his way across the floor, marveling at the selection of toys. Were they donated to the orphanage or did the church just have a lot of money? He’d never seen this many toys in one place outside of a store. He was jealous for a second, but only until he remembered that all the kids here had lost their parents in one way or another. Losing his family wasn’t worth all the toys in the world. And on second glance, a lot of the toys looked old and more than a little beat up.

He saw the moment Steve spotted him, because his head snapped up and his whole body stiffened. “Bucky?” Steve mouthed his name soundlessly, eyes wide. He blinked hard, as if he was afraid he was hallucinating.

“Hey, pal,” Bucky waved, coming to a stop a few feet away. He was going to force a smile, but it wasn’t necessary. He’d missed Steve so much that the punk could have started screaming at him and he probably still would have smiled. Plus, the startled look on his face was kind of hilarious.

“What are you doing here?” Steve asked, expression dropping into something a lot less amusing.

“Taking you out,” Bucky said, watching him carefully. Steve’s brow furrowed, but Bucky couldn’t tell what he was thinking. “Did you think I was just going to wait around until you showed up?”

Steve looked away, at the little girls. They were watching the conversation like they were listening to the radio, eyes wide with fascination. It made Bucky uncomfortable, but he focused on Steve, who was saying, “What if I don’t want to?”

Bucky frowned at him. “Don’t want to what?”

Steve just shrugged.

“You said you weren’t mad at me,” Bucky said, starting to get irritated. “Were you lying?”

“No,” Steve said quickly. He looked almost guilty, which just confused Bucky even more.

“I don’t understand,” Bucky said, frustrated. “You say you’re not mad, but you’re acting like I’m the last person you want to see. It’s one or the other, Steve.”

“I’m not mad,” Steve said.

Bucky stared at him. He didn’t look like he was lying, but if he wasn’t lying then why…? Bucky ran a hand through his hair, resisting the urge to turn around and stomp out. Steve’s Ma was sick, so Steve was allowed to be upset. He didn’t understand why that turned into him acting so… so _confusing,_ but he didn’t think walking out would help anything. If he waited for Steve to be in a better mood, he might be waiting a long time.

“I came here planning on taking you to the theater,” Bucky said, keeping his voice carefully calm. “I already got permission from Sister Catherine, so do you want to come with me? Or do you want me to leave? Your choice. I won’t get mad if you don’t want to come, I promise. I just thought it would be fun.”

Steve’s face fell, confusing Bucky even more. He didn’t understand what he was doing wrong. Everything he said just seemed to make Steve more upset.

“I’ll come,” Steve said quietly, to somewhere in the vicinity of Bucky’s shoes.

Bucky opened to mouth to say he didn’t have to, then closed it. Steve never did anything he didn’t want to do, at least not without arguing. If he said he was coming it was because he wanted to. Right?

“Okay,” Bucky said. He didn’t dare say more than that, not wanting to screw up again.

“What film?” Steve asked, finally looking up.

Bucky paused. “Uh.” Steve’s expression slowly morphed into one of amusement and disbelief. “Whatever they’re showing,” Bucky said confidently.

Steve snorted. “Sure, Buck.

Bucky didn’t even care that Steve was making fun of him, because that had almost been a smile. “Come on,” he hopped forward and thrust a hand out to Steve, starting to get excited again.

Steve grabbed his hand and Bucky pulled him up. He didn’t let go then, but instead started dragging Steve towards the door. The little girls didn’t seem upset about the loss of their playmate, they just yelled, “Bye!” and that was it.

“So, what happened?” Steve asked as Bucky dragged him out onto the sidewalk.

“With what?” Bucky asked, glancing at Steve.

Steve gave him a flat look and gestured at Bucky’s face. “Did you pick a fight with a bear? Are those scratch marks?” He leaned in to peer at Bucky’s face.

Bucky leaned back. They were, in fact, scratch marks. But Vince had a bite mark, so Bucky couldn’t complain. “It’s nothing.”

“Pull the other one,” Steve said, dragging Bucky to a stop.

Bucky sighed. “I caught some jerks throwing rocks at a stray cat. They had it cornered and got kind of mad when I distracted them and it ran off.”

Steve scowled, just like Bucky knew he would. “Who? Was the cat okay?”

“It was okay enough to run,” Bucky shrugged. “Didn’t get a good look at it.”

“Who was it?” Steve repeated.

Bucky considered lying, but didn’t see the point. “Vince and Frank. Mostly Vince.”

Steve’s frown deepened. “You didn’t break his nose again, did you?”

Bucky laughed. “Nah. No broken bones. I won, though. Taught him a lesson he won’t be forgetting anytime soon."

Steve rolled his eyes, looking like he couldn’t decide whether to scold Bucky for fighting or praise him for defending a stray cat. “I thought I was supposed to be the one picking fights with bullies.”

Bucky swung an arm around Steve’s shoulders and grinned. “Guess you’re wearing off on me, punk.”

***

The questions didn’t start until they reached the theater and Bucky led them to the parking lot in the back instead of through the front door. “We’re early,” he said. “We still have half an hour before the film starts.” Which was true. Bucky had arranged for Jim’s brother to meet them at the back door at one and he’d left himself extra time in case he had to sneak Steve out or something.

Steve didn’t buy it. “So, Bucky,” he said, picking up a rock and tossing it at a tree. “Where’d you get the money?”

Bucky faltered mid-swing and nearly hit a car with his rock. He winced.

It wasn’t that he was afraid Steve would disapprove - he generally only cared about rules if breaking them hurt people and sneaking into a theater didn’t hurt anybody - but he’d been enjoying the lighter mood.

“Did you steal it?” Steve asking, starting to look suspicious.

“No!” Bucky blurted out. “I wouldn’t do that. I, uh, may have arranged for us to be let in through the back?”

Steve frowned at him.

“It doesn’t hurt anyone,” Bucky argued, starting to get a little worried when Steve continued frowning. “The theater doesn’t even lose money. It’s not like we’re taking seats away from paying customers. The seats are never all full.”

Steve stared at him for another second, then shrugged. “Okay.”

Bucky squinted at him. “Okay?”

Steve nodded. “Like you said, it’s not hurting anyone.”

Bucky smiled, relieved. “Good. You had me going for a second there. I just- I wanted to do something fun. For you. I know things haven’t been great,” _understatement of the century,_ “and I know it doesn’t make up for your Ma being sick, but you still have me. You know? I’m not going anywhere.”

Steve ducked his head and Bucky’s smile fell. Had he said something wrong again? He shouldn’t have brought up Steve’s Ma. He should’ve-

Bucky let out a breath of air as Steve smacked into his chest and clung, burying his face in Bucky’s shoulder. After a second of startled confusion, Bucky hugged him back. A knot formed in his throat, but at the same time the tightness in his chest relaxed. He hugged Steve harder, stretching the embrace out a little longer than he probably should have, then reluctantly loosened his grip.

Steve didn’t let go. _Okay,_ Bucky thought, continuing the hug. It wasn’t completely normal for two guys to hug this long, but there had to be exceptions. Like when someone’s Ma got sent away because she was sick. And the hug was nice. A little too hot since it was ninety-something degrees out, but he wasn’t complaining. It was way better than Steve being all quiet and emotionless. It was nice.

When Steve finally pulled back, he turned away from Bucky to face the trees they’d been throwing rocks at. Bucky politely didn’t pay attention to the way he furtively swiped at his eyes.

No, he was too busy panicking over how his pants were suddenly too tight. Because what the _hell,_ Bucky?

Although, a few months ago he’d had the same issue while doing math homework, something he wasn’t even remotely attracted to, so maybe he shouldn’t be surprised that hugging an actual person caused a reaction. It didn't mean anything. But talk about bad timing. Steve's Ma was sick and Steve was upset and now was  _not the time_. Not that there would ever be a right time - Steve was  _male_ and  _his best friend_ \- but this was an even worse time than usual.

Bucky subtly turned away from Steve and crouched down to carefully examine rocks as if he could only throw the perfectly shaped ones at the trees. He started going over baseball statistics in his head, and when that didn’t work, started thinking about Steve’s reaction if Bucky didn’t get a handle on the situation. That worked. Almost too well, judging by the way the tightness in his chest returned with a vengeance.

No more long hugs, he decided. Short hugs were still okay, but only the normal kind between two pals. Nothing longer than, say, three seconds. Definitely not thirty seconds. Thirty seconds was too long.

Bucky abruptly stood up and pitched a rock at a tree as hard as he could. It hit at an angle, bounced off, and missed breaking a car window by about an inch. He could feel his heart thumping in his chest.

“Bucky?”

Bucky twitched and spun around. “Yeah?”

Steve’s eyes darted between the rocks in Bucky’s hand and the car he just barely missed. “Maybe throwing rocks isn’t the best idea.”

“Yeah,” Bucky breathed out. He unclenched his fist and let the rest of the rocks tumble to the ground. “So, the high school has a baseball team. Think I should join next year?”

Steve gave him a funny look, but seemed almost as relieved at the change in topic as Bucky felt. Somehow, he doubted it was for the same reason.

***

Sneaking into the theater was nerve-wracking, but everything went smoothly according to plan. At what must have been one o’clock, the back door swung open and a head popped out. Steve and Bucky were waiting just outside.

“You Barnes?” the dark-haired boy, probably around seventeen, asked. He didn’t look very friendly, but as long as he was willing to let them in Bucky didn’t care.

Bucky nodded. “And you’re Jim’s brother.”

“Gordon,” he said, almost glaring at them. “I’m only doing this once and only because my little brother says he owes you. You better not be messing with him, or I’ll make you regret it.”

“We traded favors, that’s it.”

Gordon still looked suspicious, but he jerked his head for them to enter. “Hurry up. And you better not cause any trouble. I need this job.”

“We’ll be quiet,” Steve promised before Bucky could even open his mouth.

Bucky nodded. “We’re not here to cause problems.”

They slipped inside and found themselves in a dimly-lit hallway. Jim’s older brother pointed them at a closed door off to the side. “In there. Lights are out and the film’s about to start. Pick seats near the back, or at least don’t bother anybody. If you get caught, you don’t know me.”

Bucky nodded and grabbed Steve’s wrist. A look at Steve’s expression showed he wasn’t exactly happy about this, but he wasn’t complaining either. Bucky pulled him into the dark theater and they slipped into the closest empty seats to the door. He made sure to take a seat on Steve’s right side so he could whisper in his ear if he wanted. His right ear was his good ear.

“Forgot to ask what they’re showing,” Bucky whispered a second later.

Steve just shrugged.

Bucky sank back into his seat to watch the screen.

An hour and a half later, he decided _The Public Enemy_ was his favorite film ever.

“Did you hear those gunshots?” he asked Steve as they blended into the crowd exiting the theater. “And the screeching tires? And did you see the way that wall exploded when they were shooting at him?”

“I saw,” Steve said, sounding amused.

Bucky didn’t even care if Steve was laughing at him. “What did you think?”

“It was good,” Steve said. He grabbed Bucky’s arm to keep from being swept away in the crowd.

“Good?” Bucky pouted at him. “That’s all you got to say? Well, I thought it was swell.”

Steve shook his head, but he was smiling as he did it. “Are you planning on becoming a gangster now?”

Bucky grinned at him. “What if I was? What would you do?”

Steve rolled his eyes. “I’d take you down. It would be my duty as your best friend.”

“Steve! You’re supposed to say you’d join me! We’d be the best partners ever and we’d take over the whole of Brooklyn!”

“Bucky,” Steve said seriously, and Bucky suddenly felt worried, scared he might have taken the joke too far. “We’re not becoming gangsters,” he continued in the same solemn tone, but Bucky caught his lips twitching towards a smile.

Bucky nearly melted with relief and grinned. “Says you. James Cagney is my new hero and I’m gonna be the toughest gangster you’ve ever met.”

“I dunno, Buck. If you want to be tough you’re going to have to stop rescuing stray cats.”

“Hey!” Bucky protested, and Steve laughed. “I can be tough _and_ save stray cats.”

“Sure you can,” Steve teased. “Bucky Barnes, the gangster with the heart of gold.”

Bucky punched him in the arm and didn’t feel bad at all. “Punk.”

“Jerk,” Steve grumbled, then smiled again. “But thanks, for this. It was good.”

Bucky beamed at him. “I have the best ideas.”

“You ever gonna tell me what favor you traded to get Gordon to sneak us in? I heard that, you know. I was standing right next to you.”

“Nope.”

 

 


	5. 1932

The brief moment of happiness Bucky and Steve found at the theater didn’t last, and no matter how hard Bucky tried, he couldn’t seem to repeat it. At least not for longer than a few minutes at a time, and then Steve would be extra miserable for the next few minutes as if to make up for smiling when he wasn’t supposed to. Bucky tried, he really did, but eventually he had to accept that his Ma was right and sometimes there was just nothing he could do to cheer Steve up.

Then, as soon as Bucky started to get used to this new quiet Steve, the sadness turned to anger.

A week after school started, Steve showed up late to the library where they’d agreed to meet up after school. (Steve had decided to switch to the Catholic school for reasons Bucky still didn’t completely understand.) His right cheek was red and swollen, his lip was split, and the look in his eyes reminded Bucky of thunderclouds.

“What happened?” Bucky asked warily, not wanting to set Steve off. Raised voices in the library was the fastest way to get kicked out. “Who was it?”

Steve’s scowl darkened. “Bullies,” he said, and then refused to say another word on the subject no matter how hard Bucky pressed. He gave up when it looked like Steve might actually punch him in the face the next time he asked.

Three days later, Steve showed up with a scratch on his chin and a half-dry blood stain down the front of his shirt that was clearly from a bloody nose. “Bullies,” he said again.

Four days after that, Steve got another black eye on top of the first one. “Bullies?” Bucky asked. Steve ignored him. He took that as a yes.

Bucky gave up on meeting at the library after that and started jogging to Steve’s school as soon as his own let out. Sometimes he was too late to stop the fight, and sometimes all he could do was find Steve and pick him up off the ground, but other times he did get there in time to stop the fight and that was when he started to get some answers.

It took about a week for Bucky to get suspicious and another two weeks to confirm those suspicions. Steve wasn’t being picked on. He wasn’t being bullied. His fights were almost never with the same people twice in a row.

Steve was actually going out of his way to get into fights. Sometimes it wasn’t even with kids from school. If he couldn’t find anyone his own age who wanted to punch him, he’d start walking to the library and pick a fight with some jerk who was whistling at girls, or an obnoxious homeless guy, or a group of young men he’d never met who just ‘looked like bullies, Bucky. And I was right, ‘cause if they weren’t they wouldn’t have hit me’. Because that made sense. It couldn’t have possibly had anything to do with Steve getting in their faces or anything. Nope, they were just bullies.

***

“You need to stop,” Bucky told him at the beginning of November, when it was clear that Steve wasn’t going to stop on his own.

“Stop what?” Steve asked, kicking a rock and sending it skittering down the sidewalk.

“You know what,” Bucky snapped. He knew he should have been calmer about it, more composed and less short-tempered, but his ribs were throbbing along with his heartbeat and he’d been punched in the face for the second time in a week (his Ma was going to _kill_ him) and he just wanted everything to go back to the way it used to be. “You’re going to get hurt. _Seriously_ hurt, not just bruises. What if I wasn’t there today? Those guys were twice your size.”

Steve kicked another rock, harder this time. It bounced off a crack in the sidewalk and hit a shop window, thankfully not hard enough to break it. They both winced and hurried past before anyone could come out and shout at them.

“They were harassing people,” Steve finally said.

“So?” Bucky flung his arms out, exasperated and frustrated. “The world is full of jerks, Steve. You can’t fight all of them.”

Steve clenched his jaw stubbornly. “I’m not going to just ignore them.”

Bucky's stomach sank. He recognized the look on Steve’s face and it wasn’t one he wanted to see. He knew before he even opened his mouth that Steve probably wasn’t going to listen to him, but he’d still hoped. It’d been two months since the fighting started. Wasn’t that long enough?

Sighing, Bucky scrubbed his hands over his face and winced when he pressed against a bruise. “Can you just be a little more careful?” he tried. “I’m tired of doing laundry.”

“You don’t have to jump in,” Steve retorted immediately. “I never asked you to and I don’t want you to.”

“Yeah, well, too bad,” Bucky said, suddenly feeling exhausted. “If you don’t want me jumping in, stop starting fights.”

***

By December, Bucky’s Ma had given up on punishing him for getting in fights and just sighed every time he came home with a new bruise. His dad was barely speaking to him, using silence and pointed looks to show his disapproval. Bucky ignored them both, because arguing wouldn’t help and it wasn’t like he could stop.

He’d tried to get Steve to stop picking fights. He’d asked and asked, threw out excuses and logic and even tried offering bribes and making deals a few times. Sometimes Steve even agreed that he should stop getting in so many fights. But Bucky could talk until he was blue in the face - when it came down to it, Steve always chose to fight. He didn’t hesitate a single second before stepping in front of somebody’s fist.

So Bucky did what he could to minimize the damage, to make sure Steve’s bruises didn’t turn into broken bones. He couldn’t be there for every fight, but he was there for as many possible.

It never felt like enough.

 

*****

 

It wasn’t until spring that the fighting calmed down, and it was for the dumbest reason ever. Bucky told Steve he wasn’t going to join the baseball team because he was afraid Steve would get himself killed while he was at practice (It was a legitimate fear, in his defense. In the middle of February, Steve picked a fight with three older drunks and it was only Bucky’s habit of rushing from his school to Steve’s that saved Steve from being beaten to death. The men had been too drunk and too angry to control themselves and Steve was too stubborn to run away like a normal person would).

Steve lost it. He forced Bucky to sign up for the baseball team and swore on his life he’d go to every practice and sit in the stands and do homework. Bucky, while absolutely bewildered that _baseball_ was apparently where Steve drew the line, took the deal without arguing. He might have secretly been a little annoyed that none of his far more logical arguments had worked, but he was too relived at the thought of even a slight decrease in the amount of fighting to care about the specifics. Less fighting was less fighting. And less worrying and less bruises and less _looks_ from his folks like he was a problem they didn’t know what to do with.

It worked out for both of them, although Steve’s allergies weren’t exactly happy about the situation. His asthma was getting better the older he got though, so Bucky wasn’t too worried about him suffocating while sitting in the stands. He still got wheezy all the time, but the attacks that left him choked up and gasping for air were rare now.

At the end of February, Bucky finally hit that growth spurt his Ma had been going on about for the past year. His bottomless pit of a stomach began to yield results and by the time June came around he was taller than his Ma and only a few inches shorter than his dad.

Steve was envious, but Bucky resented the extra height more than he enjoyed it. As sissy as it made him sound, he was used to being a fairly good-looking kid. His Ma’s friends always called him cute, at least, and the girls at school seemed to like him well enough. Now he just looked awkwardly stretched out and too skinny by far.

And the timing was terrible. He couldn’t have grown at any other time of year instead of right after he signed up for baseball? The rapid change in height left him unbalanced and clumsy, and he’d never been clumsy in his life. His limbs were simply never where he thought they’d be and he tripped over his own feet more times than he was willing to admit. He did the baseball team little favors that season.

His Ma said that Bucky just needed to ‘grow into himself’, and his dad said that Barnes men had always been tall and that he’d gone through the same thing when he was young, but Bucky just wanted it to be done already. Tall or short, he didn’t care, he wished he could just skip ahead a few years to when he was fully grown and not a kid anymore.

 

*****

 

On June 13, 1932, Sarah Rogers surprised everyone by showing up at the orphanage to pick Steve up.

Bucky wasn’t there for it, but he heard the whole story from Steve a few hours later when he showed up at Bucky’s door, grinning and babbling and so happy he was practically vibrating where he stood.

“She looks so _healthy,_ ” Steve repeated for what had to be the tenth time.

Bucky couldn’t help but smile with him even if a little part of him remained skeptical. There were stories of people being cured of TB, and of course the sanatoriums claimed they could cure it, but he’d never personally heard of it actually happening. The people who got sent away didn’t come back. Everyone knew that.

But Steve _had_ said they caught it early, he remembered. And the doctors at the hospital told him she had a good chance of recovery. So maybe she was one of the lucky ones? Steve always seemed to have the strangest combination of the best and worst luck possible, and he’d been on a bad streak for awhile now, so maybe she really was okay? Steve was always surviving stuff that should've killed him, so why couldn’t his Ma?

“You said she has a job?” Bucky asked. He’d been under the impression that very few people were willing to hire anyone who’d been diagnosed with tuberculosis.

Steve nodded eagerly. “With the hospital, yeah. She said they almost refused to hire her - that’s why she didn’t come get me right away, you know? She’s been back in Brooklyn for a month, but she didn’t want to pick me up until she was sure she had a place to live - but yeah, they hired her back. Her friends who still work there helped. She’s only allowed to work the TB ward, but she says that’s better than no job at all.”

“It is,” Bucky agreed, although he personally didn’t like that idea at all. He thought it sounded a little like the hospital was taking advantage of Steve’s Ma. By hiring someone who’d already been diagnosed with TB to work the TB ward, they didn’t have to expose another healthy person to the illness.

“You know what?” Bucky asked, shaking off the negative thoughts, “We should celebrate. I’ve been mowing lawns since school ended. I’ve got enough saved up for Coney Island.”

Steve grinned, wide and bright, and bounced a little on his heels. “I have some from doing the newspapers too. I’ll buy the hot dogs.”

“Tomorrow?” Bucky asked. It would be better to go before the weekend or all the lines would be too long.

“Day after,” Steve corrected. “My Ma’s off work tomorrow and I want to spend the day with her.”

Bucky nodded. “Thursday, then.”

That settled, Steve grinned again. “Wanna come say hi?”

“Yes,” Bucky said immediately, because why would he say no to that? He’d missed Steve’s Ma almost as much as Steve had, especially during the months when Steve was throwing himself into fights and completely ignoring Bucky’s every attempt to talk some sense into him. He’d wanted so badly to ask Steve’s Ma for advice, but she hadn’t been there and that had been exactly the problem. She hadn’t been there and Steve had gone off the rails.

“Come on,” Steve said, already backing up as he waved for Bucky to follow him.

Bucky twisted around to call, “I’m going with Steve!” before darting out the door and shutting it behind him. He didn’t wait for an answer. There wasn’t a single thing his Ma could say to stop him from following Steve.

A moment later, they were speed-walking down the sidewalk, ducking around people and darting straight through groups in a way that was definitely rude, but neither of them cared. It took Bucky a minute to realize they weren’t heading in the direction of Steve’s old tenement.

“Hey,” Bucky said, skipping a step to catch up with Steve, who was walking so fast he was practically jogging. “Where are we going? Where are you staying now?”

“It’s not far,” Steve said, not slowing down in the slightest even though his voice was going a little breathless. “Two more blocks. It’s a tenement, but it’s better than the last one. Not as old.”

“That’s good,” Bucky said, although he couldn’t help but be glad it was summer now. As much as Steve hated the orphanage, it definitely had better heating and better conditions overall than any tenement would. He had a feeling that was part of why Steve hadn’t gotten as sick this winter.

But maybe the new tenement was better? He’d reserve judgment until he saw it, and he wouldn’t say anything even if it was terrible. Steve’s Ma did the best she could and it wasn’t her fault she couldn’t afford better. She’d worked herself to the bone to keep Steve alive and nobody could have done better. Life just wasn’t fair and some people got a bad hand.

All that mattered was that Steve was happy, and he was happy with his Ma home wherever they lived. Happy and _healthy_ would be preferable, but Bucky doubted Steve would ever be completely healthy. He’d settle for happy and alive, or happy and healthy enough that he wasn’t completely miserable.

The tenement ended up being pretty much exactly what he’d expected- kind of old, kind of dirty, kind of falling apart. Overcrowded, hot, and muggy with the lingering smell of sweat that came with too many bodies and too little fresh air.

It wasn’t as hot inside as it was outside, but the shade from the sun wasn’t as much of a relief as it should have been. Bucky resisted the urge to frown or wrinkle his nose, knowing he’d get used to the stale air like he always had. He was just out of practice.

At least the stairs here didn’t creak like they were seconds away from collapsing under his feet. He’d always secretly been a little afraid of those stairs.

“It’s not as bad as the last place,” Steve said as they reached the landing, turning and giving Bucky a half-hopeful, half-embarrassed smile, like he was silently praying Bucky wouldn’t say anything to bring him down. Steve had never been ashamed of where he lived, but he was always a little uncomfortable when the difference between his tenement and Bucky’s rowhouse was brought up, like he was afraid _Bucky_ might be ashamed. He wasn’t.

“The stairs don’t creak,” Bucky pointing out, grinning, because like hell was he going to say anything bad about Steve’s new place.

Steve grinned back, then spun on his heels and knocked on the door. “I don’t have a key yet,” he explained.

Sarah Rogers swung the door open before Bucky could respond and all he could do was stare. One glance and every scrap of skepticism he’d had melted away like it’d never existed. She looked _healthy._ Now he understood why Steve kept repeating that when he babbled at Bucky earlier. She looked healthy. He hadn’t even realized how unhealthy she’d looked before she left until right this second. The contrast was incredible.

“Hi,” Bucky managed to say, eyes wide, before he darted forward and hugged her tight. She seemed shorter (he was actually taller than her now!) and softer. She’d gained enough weight that she almost had curves now instead of being just skin and bone.

“Bucky,” Sarah said, and he could hear her smiling.

He pulled back a little and stared at her face, at her warm smile, at the lack of dark circles under her eyes. She wasn’t as pale anymore and even her hair looked brighter.

“You look great,” Bucky said, feeling overwhelmed.

“I know, right?” Steve said from behind him, but Bucky couldn’t take his eyes off of her.

“And you must have grown half a foot since I left,” Sarah said, scanning him up and down.

“Yeah,” Bucky said, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Five nine, last I was measured.”

“ _I_ haven’t grown,” Steve muttered, sounding a little resentful like he always did when people mentioned Bucky’s height.

Sarah whacked him lightly on the back of the head and smiled at Bucky. “You’ve been taking care of this one for me?”

Bucky laughed. “Been trying my best. He hasn’t been making it easy.”

“Bucky!” Steve protested.

“No?” Sarah prompted, eyes sparkling.

“You know,” Bucky said, mostly just to mess with Steve. He wasn’t _actually_ planning on telling her how bad it’d been. “Steve and his-” Bucky suppressed a yelp as Steve subtly pinched his hip, “war against bullies,” he finished.

“Still getting in fights?” Sarah asked Steve, going a little stern for a moment.

“No!” Steve said quickly, then corrected, “Not as much, I swear.”

“He’s been getting better,” Bucky assured her. “Not a single fight since school got out.” Which had been less than a month ago, but at the beginning of the year Bucky would've considered it a miracle if Steve went a single week without earning himself a new bruise.

Sarah’s eyebrows went up. “This is impressive,” she teased. Steve’s cheeks flushed pink and Bucky had to hide a grin.

“Are we going to stand in the doorway all day?” Steve asked, shoving Bucky forward a little harder than necessary. “Let’s go inside.”

“You two,” Sarah started, leading them to the tiny kitchen table, “are going to tell me all about this past year. Every little detail. I don’t care if it’s embarrassing and I promise you won’t be in trouble for any of it. I want to know everything.”

Bucky exchanged a look with Steve and mentally promised he wouldn’t give away exactly how many fights Steve had gotten in as long as Steve didn’t let on how much Bucky’d been fighting with his Dad lately. Although he wasn’t sure he could really call it _fighting_ when the weapon was mostly pointed silence, but he really didn’t want to get into all that right now. This was supposed to be a happy reunion. He’d tell Sarah eventually, but it didn’t have to be now.

“I joined the baseball team,” Bucky started.

“And made me go to all his practices,” Steve complained.

“Fresh air is healthy,” Bucky said loftily, and deliberately didn’t react when Steve kicked him under the table. “Besides, you weren’t complaining.”

Steve snorted. “Only because it was fun watching you trip all over yourself.”

And now it was Bucky’s turn to flush red. “That wasn’t my fault! I grew three inches in four months.”

Steve’s grin turned a little evil and Bucky sank deeper into his chair. He was pretty sure he knew what Steve was going to say next and equally sure he couldn’t stop him from saying it.

“Coach Baker almost kicked him off the team when he face-planted in the middle of a game two feet before reaching home plate.”

Bucky covered his face with his hands. That moment was going to haunt his nightmares for the rest of his life. “Steve almost failed math!” he announced in revenge.

“Hey!” Steve yelped as his Ma turned to him with raised eyebrows. “ _Almost,_ ” he emphasized. “I passed. I didn’t fail.”

Bucky stuck his tongue out at Steve when he turned to glare at him because he was secretly still a ten year old. “You started it. I thought we agreed never to mention the baseball incident ever again.

“I never agreed to that,” Steve said, even though he absolutely _had,_ the jerk. “Besides, it’s my Ma.”

“Boys,” Sarah interrupted when Bucky opened his mouth to argue, shaking her head even as she smiled. “No fighting.”

Steve and Bucky exchanged a quick grin at the familiar reprimand and dove back into describing their year. Minus the ugly parts.

 

*****

 

On Thursday, Bucky woke up to a heavy body throwing itself on top of him. He grunted in surprise and twisted around (carefully, because he’d once accidentally flung Anne to the ground. She’d been unhurt, but he’d spent the next five minutes trying to get her to stop crying) and yelped as a pointy elbow jabbed him in the side.

Too heavy to be Anne, he noted groggily, confused. “Becca?”

“Nope,” a familiar voice chirped.

Bucky’s eyes flew open. “Steve?” He blinked, then shoved Steve off and buried himself back under his sheets. “No,” he mumbled into his pillow.

Two seconds later, Bucky shouted as Steve’s fingers dug ruthlessly into his sides and wiggled. He scrambled away clumsily, kicking the wall hard as he tried to both get away and extract himself from his tangled sheets. Trying to roll out of Steve’s reach, he misjudged the width of the bed and tumbled to the floor with a loud thud.

He glared up at Steve blearily. “I hate you.”

Steve grinned down at him, unrepentant. “It’s past nine. We’re going to Coney Island today, remember?”

Bucky perked up a little, but only a little. “And? We have all day. What do you have against sleep, Steve? Who even let you in?”

“Your Ma,” Steve said, grinning even wider. “She told me to wake you up. Breakfast is ready.”

In response, Bucky grabbed Steve’s leg and yanked him off the bed, enjoying every second of Steve’s yelp, flail, and the thump as he hit the floor.

“You’re a jerk,” Steve grumbled, picking himself up.

“Morning people should be punched in the face,” Bucky told him.

Steve, looking infuriatingly cheerful, just ruffled Bucky’s hair and darted out the door before Bucky could swipe at him. “I hate you,” Bucky said to the empty doorway as he listened to Steve pound down the stairs. “I should’ve punched you.”

Yawning wide, he forced himself to slide across the floor to his dresser and pick out clothes. He was tempted to crawl back into bed, but knew Steve would be up here again the second he drifted off and he’d probably be meaner the second time. Bucky did _not_ want to experience getting a cup of cold water dumped on his face ever again. Once was enough.

Five minutes later, Bucky stumbled down the stairs and into the kitchen. Anne glanced up from her seat at the table and gave him a half-hearted wave - she liked mornings about as much as he did - and Steve grinned at him _again,_ looking entirely too pleased with himself. Bucky wanted to be mad, but seeing him look so happy kind of killed off the irritation.

“Bucky’s up!” Eva yelled loudly when she spotted him, making Bucky twitch. _Morning people._

“Nice hair,” Becca said, smirking at the top of his head.

His Dad didn’t even glance up from the newspaper.

Bucky mumbled, “Morning,” to everyone and slid into the chair next to Steve, doing what he could to flatten the mess on his head. He’d fix it properly after breakfast.

“Good morning,” Steve greeted, his smile just on the edge of smug.

Bucky glowered at him. “It’s summer. Mornings are for sleeping in.”

“Not if you have a paper route,” Steve said, unapologetic. “Nine is late for me.”

“Don’t be lazy, James,” Winifred added, setting plates down in front of him and Steve. Pancakes. Bucky felt a brief moment of relief that it wasn’t eggs, then picked up his fork and started to eat.

 

*****

 

“…newspapers are calling them the Bonus Army,” Steve babbled on. “’Cause they earned bonuses with their service, but they’re not allowed to collect them until 1945. But they want them now, because of the depression, ‘cause they can’t get jobs, you know?”

“Uh huh,” Bucky mumbled, nodding to show he was listening. And he was, mostly, he was just also mentally counting up his money and trying to figure out if he had enough to buy popcorn or taffy or one of those deep fried potato cake things. It was too early for lunch, but breakfast had been two hours ago and pancakes weren’t exactly filling.

“There’s over ten thousand veterans gathered in Washington now,” Steve continued, “and that’s not counting their families. My dad could have been one of them, you know. He would have been a veteran if he’d survived. They’re voting on the bill tomorrow and I hope it passes. It’s not- Are you even listening?”

“What? Yeah. Veterans, bonuses. Think we have enough for popcorn?”

“We’re not going to be able to go on many rides if we spend all our money on snacks,” Steve said, ever practical. “And we can get popcorn anywhere.”

Bucky sighed. “Why’s everything gotta be so expensive?”

“The prices actually went down,” Steve pointed out. “The shooting gallery used to be a quarter and now it’s ten cents. And most of the rides used to be a quarter too, remember?”

“The Cyclone’s still a quarter,” Bucky grumbled, then perked up. “Hey, let’s go on the Cyclone! That’s the only one we’ve never been on.”

“Yeah, because it’s a quarter,” Steve said, frowning. “We could go on two of the smaller rides for that.”

“You’re just chicken,” Bucky taunted. “You’re scared ‘cause it’s the biggest and fastest.”

Steve stopped walking and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not scared. I just don’t want to waste all our money on one ride.”

“One _roller coaster._ The newest, biggest, fastest roller coaster. If you’re not scared, then prove it.”

“Fine,” Steve snapped, grabbing Bucky’s arm and dragging him toward the line for the Cyclone.

Bucky pumped a fist behind Steve’s back and skipped forward to get into line. He’d always wanted to ride the Cyclone, but Steve always said no and Bucky’d never been mean enough to make it a challenge. This was revenge for Steve waking him up this morning,

The line for the Cyclone was actually shorter than the lines for most of the other rides, probably because of the cost. Twenty five cents for one ride was a lot of money these days, and the only reason Bucky and Steve could pay was because they’d spent the past month doing odd jobs all across Brooklyn. Bucky’d even spent a few days babysitting for one of his Ma’s friends who had six year old twin boys. Most of the money he made went to his Ma for groceries and stuff, and he was pretty sure Steve had done the same now that his Ma was back, but he always kept back a nickel or two and eventually they added up.

Steve looked more and more reluctant the closer they got to the front of the line. It was amusing at first, but by the time it was their turn to go next Bucky was starting to feel a little guilty. He could be a jerk sometimes - he knew that - but it wasn’t as fun when Steve was genuinely unhappy.

“You don’t have to get on if you don’t want to,” Bucky said quietly into Steve’s right ear, giving him an out. “I was just joking about you being chicken.” Steve was the bravest person he’d ever met.

“No,” Steve said stubbornly. “We’re going.”

Bucky eyed him sideways, but didn’t argue further, knowing it wouldn’t do any good. Once Steve made up his mind he rarely changed it and he never backed down from a challenge.

Despite his insistence that he wasn’t afraid, the second they were seated on the roller coaster Steve grabbed Bucky’s hand and squeezed it so hard it almost hurt. Bucky squeezed back and didn’t say anything to tease him. Truth was, he was getting a little nervous himself and Steve’s attitude wasn’t helping.

As soon as the roller coaster lurched into motion and started clicking it’s way to the top of the first drop, Bucky found himself grinning involuntarily. The drop looked so much higher from this angle - they were high enough now that they’d probably be seriously injured if they fell from this height. He couldn’t tell if he was more excited or terrified. What if something went wrong?

Bucky shouted at the first drop along with everyone else, then started laughing like a loon and didn’t stop until the ride was nearly over. He wanted to go again before they’d even pulled to a stop, but knew they couldn’t afford it. Next time, he promised himself.

“That was _amazing_ ,” he said to Steve the second the ride stopped, twisting in his seat to see Steve’s face.

“Yeah,” Steve said faintly. His eyes were wide, his hair windswept, and he looked stunned.

Bucky laughed at him. “We’re going on this every time,” he said at the same time Steve said, “Never again.”

Bucky blinked at Steve, who stared at him incredulously before shoving the bar across his lap up and stumbling onto the platform.

“You didn’t like it?” Bucky asked as he jumped up and staggered after Steve. His legs felt shaky from the dizzying rush of the ride, although the feeling was fading fast. “How could you not like it? That was amazing!”

Steve ignored him and speed-walked away from the ride, leaving Bucky to jog after him, wondering if he should be apologizing. It hadn’t been that bad, had it?

Bucky staggered to a stop when Steve walked straight up to a garbage can, hunched over, and puked.

_Oops?_ Bucky watched him guiltily for a second, then turned to glare at the growing crowd of onlookers. Most of them hurried away as soon as they noticed him, but a few of them chuckled as they went and Bucky had to resist the urge to chase after them and punch their teeth in. It wasn’t _funny._ How was he supposed to know the ride would make Steve sick?

When Steve straightened up and shuffled a few steps away from the garbage can, Bucky turned around and stepped toward him, but stopped before reaching him. Steve didn’t always like being touched, especially when he was sick, and judging by the dark scowl on his face and the tension lining his frame he was more than a little unhappy.

“Can’t handle a real ride?” someone shouted.

“Kiddie rides are to the left!”

Bucky whirled around and immediately spotted the two boys, probably a year or two older than himself, grinning meanly.

“Wimp!” the taller of the two boys called.

“Wanna come say that to our faces?” Bucky shouted back. The boys were across the boardwalk, separated from Bucky and Steve by a thick stream of pedestrians. They were leaning against a game stand featuring water guns, clearly having no intention of doing anything other than shouting insults.

“Just leave it,” Steve said quietly, grabbing Bucky’s arm and stopping him from going over there.

Bucky gritted his teeth, but didn’t pull away from Steve. Starting a fight would be a stupid move anyway. Today was supposed to be a day for celebrating and the last thing they needed was for Bucky to get them kicked out before they’d even had lunch.

“Assholes,” Bucky muttered, letting Steve drag him down the boardwalk. They walked in silence for a minute, wandering past games and food stands, before Bucky abruptly realized he was ruining this for Steve. Those boys were jerks, sure, but there were guys like that everywhere. It was Bucky’s bad mood that Steve was reacting to now and as long as he let it get to him, he’d be dragging Steve down with him.

So Bucky focused his attention on the crowd, the clear blue sky, the smell of salt water, greasy food, and hot dogs. Little kids shouting and laughing on the rides, the sound of the crowd and the waves crashing on the shore. The good things.

“Sorry,” Bucky offered as soon as the anger thrumming through him had settled into something calmer.

Steve didn’t even acknowledge that he’d spoken. He just kept walking, frowning mulishly down at the boardwalk.

“Come on, you know I wouldn’t have suggested it if I knew it’d make you sick.”

No response.

Bucky took a moment to confirm that he was on Steve’s good side, that he’d heard him and was ignoring him instead of simply not hearing him. Although even if he hadn’t heard him, he had to have noticed Bucky was staring at him.

“I’ll buy you an ice cream?” Bucky offered, biting his lip. Steve went a little green, which at least confirmed that he’d heard him. “Later!” Bucky hurried to say. “I’ll buy you an ice cream in an hour or two.”

“We’re eating lunch in an hour,” Steve pointed out.

Bucky blew out a tiny breath of relief at the words, although Steve still didn’t look up at him. It was a start. His stomach grumbled at the thought of waiting an entire hour for lunch, but he doubted Steve would want to eat any sooner than that.

“Before we leave, then,” Bucky said. Steve didn’t answer, but he didn’t say no either.

“It’s not ‘cause I was scared,” Steve said after a brief pause. “It was the fast turns and the rattling. It made me dizzy. I thought I was gonna pass out for a second.”

Bucky nodded, but kept his mouth shut. With the mood Steve was in now, anything he said on that subject would only make things worse. They walked a little more in silence, although this time it was less tense and more hopeful, at least on Bucky’s end.

“So what do you wanna do now?” Steve finally asked.

Bucky shrugged and looked around. “Wagners?” he asked, spotting the sign. “It’s only a dime to see the side shows.”

Steve shook his head. “It’s not right the way people pay to stare at the _freaks._ ”

Bucky resisted the urge to roll his eyes and did not point out that two years ago he and Steve had been some of those people paying to stare. “At least here they get money out of it. People are always going to stare.”

Steve glared at him. “And what if I’d been born with a pinhead instead of bad lungs and a crooked spine? Would you pay a dime to stare at me?”

“Hey,” Bucky raised his hands in surrender. He knew Steve well enough to spot when he was angling for a fight. “I’m not saying it’s right, but not all of it’s stuff like that either. Ray says they’ve got a guy that’ll swallow a sword.”

The anger lining Steve’s face fell away in favor of bewilderment. “Why?”

Bucky snorted. “Like I know? Anyway, so if you don’t wanna go there, where do you wanna go?”

Steve shrugged. “We could try a few of the games? Most of them are only a nickel. If you win the ball throwing one you get crackers.”

“Crackers?” Bucky perked up at the mention of food. “Where’d you see that one?”

Steve, looking amused now, pointed back the way they’d come. “We just passed it. How are you hungry already? We just ate breakfast.”

“Three hours ago is not _just_ anything.”

“It is when you ate a stack of pancakes the size of your head.”

“I’m a growing boy.”

“You ate as much as all your sisters and your Ma combined,” Steve said, then poked him in the stomach. “Keep eating like that and you’re gonna get fat.”

“I’m not even close to fat!” Bucky swatted Steve’s hand away. “If anything, I’m too skinny.”

“For now,” Steve teased.

Bucky rolled his eyes and swung his arm around Steve’s shoulders. “Come on,” he said, steering Steve toward where he said the ball game was. “I’m gonna win some crackers.”

Thankfully, the rest of the day passed by without incident, not counting the painful sunburns neither of them noticed until they were already on the way home. They mutually decided the pain was worth it, though Bucky really could have skipped the entire week of itching and peeling that followed. His _ears_ got sunburnt. The tiny little freckles that showed up on Steve’s nose definitely made up for that though.

 

*****

 

It was a week and a half later when Bucky showed up at Steve’s tenement when he knew Steve was out. He was at the library, to be specific. He’d stopped by Bucky’s on the way there to see if he wanted to come, but Bucky'd turned him down, saying his Ma was making him watch Anne and Eva while she did the laundry. It wasn’t a lie, not really, he just failed to mention that his Ma was about five minutes away from finishing.

So five minutes after Steve left for the library, Bucky left for Steve’s. He wanted to talk to Sarah and he wanted to do it without Steve there, a situation that was harder to come by than he’d thought it would be. It wasn’t that he _wanted_ to sneak around behind Steve’s back, but he felt weird asking Steve to go away so Bucky could talk to his Ma.

“Hi,” Bucky said as soon as Steve’s Ma swung the door open. He felt inexplicably nervous even though he’d been planning this for nearly a week.

“Steve just left,” Sarah said, smiling at him. “To the library, I believe.”

“I know,” Bucky said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he considered turning back around and leaving. “Are you… busy?”

Surprise momentarily flashed across Sarah’s face, but a second later she was smiling again. “I’m not, no. Want to come in?”

Bucky bit his lip as he nodded and stepped through the doorway. “I wanted to ask you something.”

“Come on, sit down,” Sarah said, gesturing towards the kitchen table. “What did you want to talk about?”

Bucky slipped into a chair and blurted out, “My dad,” before he could chicken out.

“You dad,” Sarah repeated, her tone carefully even.

Bucky thought again about bolting for the door. He always got the feeling that Steve’s Ma didn’t like his dad very much, and he knew for a fact that his dad didn’t like Sarah, but who else was he supposed to ask? He couldn’t talk to his Ma about his dad and he didn’t know any other adults well enough to feel comfortable asking them. And Steve’s Ma always gave him good advice.

“My dad,” Bucky repeated, lowering his gaze to the table in front of him. “He won’t- He said- I don’t know-”

“Slow down,” Sarah gently chastised. “And start at the beginning.”

“He said I'm like my uncle,” Bucky said, because that was where this had all started. Well, technically it had started with all the fighting at the beginning of the year, but Steve’s Ma still didn’t know exactly how many fights Steve had started and Bucky wasn’t going to be the one to tell her.

“Your uncle,” Sarah said, sounding a little surprised. “You’ve never mentioned him before.”

“I’ve never met him,” Bucky explained. “He lives in Indiana. That’s where my dad grew up, but he moved here a few years before I was born. I don’t think the two of them have talked since. My dad doesn’t really talk to the rest of his family.” He didn’t talk much _about_ them either, and Bucky wouldn’t be surprised if he had cousins he’d never heard of before.

“And he said you were like him,” Sarah said carefully. “So what’s your uncle like?”

“Mean,” Bucky said, because while his dad didn’t talk about his brother often, when he did that was a word that always came up. “My dad says he’s got a temper like an angry bear. He was in and out of jail his whole life, got arrested once for beating on the girl he was seeing.”

“That doesn’t sound like you,” Sarah said. Bucky could feel her watching him, but he couldn’t bring himself to meet her eyes.

“But I get in fights all the time,” he said quickly. “I haven’t been arrested yet, but I’ve been in trouble before. I get in so many fights my Ma’s given up on punishing me for it.”

“You get in fights to protect people,” Sarah said, and Bucky glanced up before he could stop himself. She looked sincere, and not disapproving or disappointed like he’d feared. “Mostly my son,” she added, smiling wryly.

“But I _do_ have a temper,” Bucky insisted. “Sometimes I get so mad I feel like I’m gonna explode, like I can’t control it… It scares me sometimes,” he admitted, looking down again. “What if I really hurt someone?”

Like the fight with Vince, he remembered, feeling ashamed. He hadn’t been protecting anyone then. Vince had been throwing rocks at a cat, sure, but the cat had been long gone before Bucky started the fight. He’d just been mad. Mad about the cat and mad about Steve and scared for Sarah and he’d started a fight just because he wanted to fight. And then he’d lost himself in it, in the rush, in _winning,_ and he’d nearly killed Vince. What if next time he didn’t stop?

“That is a problem,” Sarah said, and Bucky’s head shot up, his chest tightening with sudden panic. “But it’s not one that can’t be fixed,” she finished.

Bucky stared at her, feeling like he’d just had a minor heart attack. “How?”

Sarah didn’t answer for a moment, then said, “Next time you get mad, take a deep breath. Give yourself a second to think about the consequences and if it’s worth it. Sometimes you _do_ have to fight, but sometimes you don’t. And you do your best not to hurt anyone more than you have to.”

“Take a deep breath,” Bucky repeated, a little dubious.

“I’m not saying it’ll be easy,” Sarah continued, staring him straight in the eye. Bucky couldn’t bring himself to look away. “But you _can_ learn to control it. People like your uncle don’t care enough to put in the effort, but you do. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t. You might have his temper, Bucky, but that doesn’t make you a bad person.”

Bucky nodded. He wasn’t entirely sure he believed her, but he knew he wanted to. He desperately wanted her to be right and his dad to be wrong. “My dad won’t look at me anymore,” he admitted, lowering his gaze to the table again. “He hasn’t said more than a few words to me in months.”

“He’s wrong,” Sarah said, so vehemently that he looked up again in surprise. “Adults can be wrong, Bucky. I know when you’re a kid it seems like we know everything, but we don’t. You dad had a bad experience with your uncle and he sees some of that in you, but he’s not seeing the good. You’re not your uncle, Bucky, and if he can’t see that, then that’s on him. It doesn’t mean he’s right.”

Bucky nodded, not knowing what to say to that.

“Nobody is inherently good or bad. It’s your choices that determine that, and people can always change. Bad people can do good things, the same as good people can do bad things. Everybody makes mistakes. You just have to make sure you learn from them.”

Bucky nodded again. He thought he understood a little better where Steve got some of his ideas and opinions now. Sarah was a lot more like Steve than he’d thought she was. Or maybe Steve was like her.

 

*****

 

If Bucky thought Steve was disappointed when the bill the ‘Bonus Army’ was trying to get passed failed, it was nothing compared to how angry he was a month later when the president ordered the protesters dispersed and troops drove them out with tear gas and bayonets, burning the camps. One veteran was killed and over fifty people were injured, including women and children.

Steve got so mad he nearly tore the newspaper in half, and Bucky was sure that if Steve had been a few years older, he’d have hopped on a train to Washington DC to personally protest the incident. He could only hope that Steve calmed down a little by the time he was old enough to actually hop on a train, or Bucky would be stuck chasing him across the country from one protest to the next.

Looking back, Bucky was able to identify this event as the start of Steve’s obsession with politics. He’d always been more interested than Bucky, but it wasn’t until this that Steve started reading the newspapers every day and forming his own opinions about the topics. In the middle of August, Bucky even caught him debating with the milkman about whether the government had a responsibility to provide relief for the unemployed.

He supposed he should be glad, since Steve’s previous obsession had been picking fights with every asshole within a twenty foot radius and this one was slightly less violent, but did it have to be politics? He hated politics.

Bucky refused to acknowledge that Steve’s new obsession might be partly a distraction from the way his Ma was nearly back down to the weight she’d been before she was taken away.

The weight loss was just because she was working long shifts and constantly on her feet and because she couldn’t always afford the amount of food she needed to maintain her weight. Almost everybody went to bed hungry once in a while these days. That was nothing special.

She was pale because she worked the night shift. The dark circles under her eyes were because it was hard to sleep during the day with the light and the noise from the surrounding rooms.

The cough was just from that summer cold that was going around.

Steve talked about politics and Bucky reluctantly listened.

 

*****

 

“Braid my hair,” Eva demanded, coming to a stop right next to Bucky’s chair.

Bucky lowered his spoonful of cereal back into his bowl. “It’s your first day of school. Don’t you want Ma to do it?”

“No,” Eva set her jaw stubbornly. “You’re gonna do it. Ma pulls too hard an’ Becca’s grumpy in the morning.”

“ _I’m_ grumpy,” Becca asked incredulously. She jabbed her spoon at Bucky, dripping milk on the table. “He hates mornings more than Steve hates bullies.”

“That is a lie,” Bucky said. “Nobody hates anything more than Steve hates bullies.” Becca raised her eyebrows at him. “But you have a point. Why don’t you braid her hair?”

“No!” Eva scowled at the two of them. “It’s my first day and it’s gotta be _perfect._ Bucky does the best braids.”

Bucky did not do the best braids, but a few years of practice meant he could at least do them competently. He didn’t think he’d ever understand why Eva and Anne always wanted _him_ to braid their hair, but he’d given up on trying to figure that one out a long time ago. Refusing was usually more trouble than it was worth, at least with Eva.

“Let me finish eating first,” Bucky said, and Eva grinned and rushed off.

“Pushover,” Becca said as soon as she was gone.

“You’re just jealous they like my braids better.”

“You keep telling yourself that.”

Bucky made a face at her, but it was too early to properly argue.

As soon as he finished his cereal, Eva appeared at his side and trailed after him as he got up, giving him puppy-dog eyes until he relented and sat down on the couch. Eva grinned triumphantly and plopped down in front of him so he could braid her hair.

Anne, of course, spotted the two of them and asked him to do her hair too, and since Becca was right and Bucky was a bit of a pushover, he agreed even though he didn’t have the time.

Then he rushed around like a madman trying to get himself ready before he was late. He had to jog the three blocks to where he was supposed to meet Steve, which was horrible because nobody should ever have to run first thing in the morning. It was almost enough to make him regret the hair braiding, but he knew if he had to do it over again he’d end up doing the same thing.

Steve’s eyebrows went up when Bucky slumped to a stop next to him, breathing hard and far less put together than he wanted to be for his first day of school.

“Late morning?”

“Shut it,” Bucky grumbled. “Eva made me braid her hair and then Anne made me braid her hair and then I couldn’t find a single pen even though I _know_ I left one on the table last night and it’s too _early_ to run.”

“What happened to doing _your_ hair?” Steve asked, grabbing Bucky’s elbow and forcing him to start walking again.

Bucky frowned and self-consciously lifted a hand to smooth down his hair. He’d used a wet comb to quickly get rid of the worst of his bed-head, but he hadn’t had time to slick it back the way he’d wanted to. Not for the first time, he wished he had a little less hair, or that it was straighter or thinner instead of thick and wavy. He couldn’t blame his sisters for preferring braids - their hair was the same and it was a chore to deal with. At least his was short, although that also meant it was free to stick up in all directions in the mornings.

“I ran out of time,” Bucky said, stumbling as Steve dragged him forward.

“Eva did the eyes, didn’t she?” Steve asked, briefly twisting around to grin at him before continuing to pull Bucky down the street.

Bucky made a face at the back of his head. “I know you taught her that.”

Steve didn’t deny it, and when Bucky glanced at him he was… tense? Bucky squinted at him, stumbling again as he tripped over a crack in the sidewalk. Steve glanced back again to check on him, and smiled, but it was immediately apparent to Bucky that the smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Bucky demanded, cursing himself for not noticing earlier. He’d been rushing, flustered and distracted, or he would have seen it the second he laid eyes on Steve.

“Nothing,” Steve said, yanking Bucky’s arm as he continued walking. “I’m just a little nervous.”

Bucky dug in his heels and jerked them both to a stop. “No, you’re not.”

Steve whirled around, eyes narrowed. “It’s my first day of high school. I’m not allowed to be nervous?”

“No-” Bucky cut himself off. “Okay, fine. You’re nervous, but that’s not what’s _wrong._ ”

Steve glared at him, but Bucky knew he was right. Steve was too tense for it to be just first day nerves. There was definitely something else, something he wasn’t saying… but this might not be the best time to push it. Something he would have realized earlier if it wasn’t so damn early in the morning. He hated mornings.

Of course, the second Bucky decided to let it go was the second Steve gave in and quietly admitted, “My Ma didn’t go to work last night.”

“…Oh,” Bucky said, understanding a lot more than Steve was saying out loud.

“She said she wanted to see me off this morning,” Steve said weakly. “Education is important.”

Bucky didn’t say anything because there was nothing to say. Admitting the truth out loud felt wrong, like as long as nobody actually said the words, things might still get better. Maybe it was all in their heads and maybe Sarah Rogers just had a cold that was lingering for an unusually long amount of time. Maybe she’d wake up one day and her cough would be gone.

“Don’t go to the bathroom by the lunch room,” Bucky advised, starting to walk again. “That’s where all the guys go to smoke and you’ll have an asthma attack the second you step through the door. Sometimes the air’s so thick in there that _I_ feel like I can’t breathe. There’s another bathroom by the main office and one on the second floor.”

 

*****

 

The first person to actually acknowledge the reality of the situation out loud, to say the words nobody wanted to say, was Sarah herself. And she was talking to Bucky of all people, while Steve ducked out the door to go to the bathroom a floor down.

“Take care of him for me.”

Desperately hoping he might have misheard her or misunderstood, Bucky said, “What?”

Sarah, slumped in a chair at the kitchen table, straightened up and pierced Bucky with a stare that felt like it went straight to his soul. “I’m sick,” she said bluntly. “I know it, you know it, and Steve knows it. On Friday, I’m going to the doctor and we both know what they’re going to say.”

“On Friday?” Bucky repeated, still not moving a muscle. He was sitting on the floor in the middle of the living room, his math book in his lap. Today was Tuesday. Friday was in three days.

Sarah shrugged tiredly. “I could wait for them to take me away, sure. I might get a few more weeks out of it, maybe a few months if I’m lucky, but I don’t want it to happen like last time. I don’t want Steve to come home after school one day to find a note on the door saying I’m gone.”

“Does he know?” Bucky asked. “That you’re..? Friday?” _Three days._ His chest tightened until he felt like he was suffocating.

“I’m going to talk to him after dinner,” Sarah said.

That was a no. Which meant she’d decided to talk to Bucky first. But why? Why him?

“Steve’s going to be upset,” Sarah said quietly. “And that’s not your responsibility. It’s not your job to take care of him, Bucky.”

Bucky wanted to argue, to say of course it was, that _she just asked him to,_ but his mouth wouldn’t move and his mind was blank. All he could do was stare, too… too _everything_ to feel anything.

“All I’m asking is that you be his friend,” Sarah continued, slumping a little more in her chair like the words themselves were draining energy out of her. “I know it’s not right for me to ask something like that, but Steve’s my son and I don’t want him to be alone.”

“I will,” Bucky said, forcing the words out around the lump in his throat. He hadn’t cried in years, but he suddenly felt like he was about to. “You don’t have to ask that. I will.”

“You’re a good kid, Bucky,” Sarah said, and Bucky couldn’t look at her anymore. He stared down at his math book instead, unseeing. “No matter what happens, no matter what your dad says, know that I’m proud of you.”

And now he really was going to cry. She was talking like she was going to die, and it wasn’t fair that she was sick. It wasn’t fair that Steve was going to have to go back to the orphanage. It wasn’t _fair._ Neither of them deserved that. Steve and his Ma were _good._ The best people he knew. Better than him, better than anyone. They hadn’t done anything to deserve this.

Sarah laughed, a little watery, and Bucky looked up to see she had tears in her eyes too. “I’d hug you, but I don’t want you near me.”

Bucky wanted to hug her. He wanted to hug her so bad it was hard to hold himself back. The last time she’d let him that close was three months ago when she first got back. Had she known the whole time she was going to get sick again? The cough hadn’t come back until August, but she’d been careful long before that.

He knew he should probably say something back, but he was pretty sure if he tried to speak he was going to start crying - actually crying, not just the watery eyes he had now - so they sat in silence. Sarah didn’t seem to mind.

The two of them were mostly back in control of themselves by the time Steve returned a few minutes later, but the atmosphere was subdued. Steve didn’t seem to notice, or at least he didn’t question it if he did. He probably noticed. Steve was more observant than most people gave him credit for.

Bucky left a little earlier than usual. There was a conversation that needed to be had and he wasn’t a part of it. His part was over, and while none of it had surprised him, knowing it was coming hadn’t prepared him for the reality of hearing it.

He walked home, locked himself in his bedroom, and curled up in bed for the rest of the night. He didn’t come out for dinner, not even when his Ma sent Eva knocking on his door to lure him out. Tomorrow he’d get up and do his best to be there for Steve, but tonight he was just going to lie in bed and think about nothing.

 

*****

 

The next day felt like a dream.

Bucky went to Steve’s early in the morning, Sarah stayed home all day, and the three of them just sat and talked and played games and none of them mentioned sickness or hospitals or sanatoriums. It felt like a completely normal day, except for how every once in awhile one of them would get caught just _staring_ at the others like they were trying to memorize every last detail of that moment. None of them mentioned that either.

Bucky stayed for dinner. They ate leftovers, but after that Steve and Bucky helped make an egg-less chocolate cake and they ate it while it was still warm.

When he finally went home, Bucky got lectured for skipping school and he endured it silently, then went to his room and curled up in bed. He hadn’t told his family Sarah was sick again because he was afraid they wouldn’t let him go over there if they knew. He’d probably get lectured for that too, but he didn’t care.

 

*****

 

Bucky went to school the next day. Steve didn’t.

When school ended, he debated going to Steve’s or going home, knowing he should probably give Steve and his Ma some time alone, but he couldn’t resist. He went to Steve’s and was welcomed with sad, tired smiles.

He made up stories and Steve drew quick illustrations of them like they used to do when they were kids. Sarah listened and smiled and then fell asleep on the couch. Bucky went home after that.

 

*****

 

He pretended to be sick the next morning. He pretended so enthusiastically that despite not having a fever, his Ma let him stay home in bed instead of going to school. He squeezed his eyes shut and went back to sleep, wishing that the next time he woke up it would still be summer and the past month would have all been a dream.

He woke up a few hours later to Steve slipping through his door and locking it behind him. Bucky briefly wondered what Steve must have said to Ma to explain neither of them being in school - the ‘Bucky being sick’ excuse was looking flimsier by the second - but then Steve silently crawled into bed next to him and the world outside his room ceased to matter.

Without saying a word, Bucky threw an arm around Steve and tugged him closer. Steve pressed his forehead to Bucky’s shoulder, Bucky pressed his nose to the top of Steve’s head, and they both went still. Fuck what was ‘proper’, Bucky was going to curl up in bed with his best pal and if anyone tried to say anything about it he’d break their nose.

 

*****

 

The weeks that followed were difficult. Bucky was caught between mourning Sarah himself in a way he hadn’t the last time (he wasn’t sure why, but this time felt more permanent. Maybe because they actually got to say goodbye instead of being blindsided) and trying to be there for Steve.

Steve went quiet again, but it was a subtly different quiet than last time. People who didn’t know him as well probably couldn’t tell the difference, but for Bucky it was obvious and nerve-wracking. He didn’t know what to make of it.

When Steve went quiet last time it was because he was in shock, lost and confused and sad. This time there was a hardness to his gaze that Bucky had never seen before. It almost reminded him of the moment right before Steve threw himself into a fight, when he was defiantly challenging some jerk to hit him. But this time it lingered - while he was eating breakfast, doing homework, walking down the sidewalk - like he was in constant battle with some unseen enemy and was refusing to back down.

As confusing as it was, Bucky couldn’t help but admire him for it. When things got hard for him, he crumpled. He curled in on himself and tried to pretend it wasn’t real. Steve just stood up, threw his shoulders back, and braced himself for whatever came next. _Hit me again, I dare you._

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the reviews!


	6. 1933

Bucky anxiously waited for the fighting to start again and wasn’t sure what to think when it didn’t. That was what had happened last time, after all, and while it wasn’t like he _wanted_ Steve to go out and pick a fight with every jerk he could find, it was what he’d expected. He felt a little lost when nothing happened.

That wasn’t to say Steve didn’t get in fights at all. There were fights - skirmishes with bullies and times where Bucky had to jump in and rescue Steve from his own stubbornness - but it was never more than the normal amount. The baseline that was simply a part of Steve’s existence. He got in a fight maybe once every few weeks and that number had stayed steady since the moment they met (not counting the first time Sarah Rogers got taken away).

This time, the fighting didn’t escalate. Steve glared out at the world like he was challenging fate or God or maybe the Universe itself to try and knock him down again, and everything went on like normal.

Bucky couldn’t say it wasn’t a relief. His folks were finally starting to relax now that he wasn’t constantly coming home with split lips and black eyes. His Dad even started talking to him again. Tentatively, at first, and Bucky doubted their relationship would ever go back to the easy one they’d had when he was little, but at least he wasn’t getting side-eyed like he was some kind of wife beater.

Less of a relief was how Steve’s interest in politics lingered. Bucky couldn’t call it an obsession anymore - the intensity had abated now that Steve wasn’t using it as a distraction from his Ma’s illness - but it remained a topic of conversation, much to Bucky’s dismay.

When Roosevelt won the election in November, Bucky was thrilled. He cheered and celebrated right alongside Steve. He did not mention that most of his joy came from the fact that the end of the election meant they got to _stop talking about it._ He still hated politics. It was boring to hear about and boring to read about and they weren’t even old enough to vote, so it wasn’t like they could do anything to change any of it. _Boring._

The best result of the return to the normal level of bruises was that his Ma finally warmed up to Steve enough to invite him over for Christmas dinner. He’d had to spend last Christmas at the orphanage and Bucky hadn’t been able to fully enjoy the holiday knowing Steve was practically alone, celebrating with people he didn’t even like all that much.

It was a good holiday. Maybe not the best, per say - Bucky didn’t think anything could compare to the childish excitement and enthusiasm he’d felt when he was younger - but it was good. Nobody could afford much, but there were a few small, practical gifts. His folks gave him a new tube of Brylcreem for his hair, Becca got new gloves, Anne got a homemade apron because she was starting to learn to cook, and Eva got a new dress.

When Steve showed up for dinner later, he gave Bucky a copy of the August 1928 issue of _Amazing Stories_ that had the Buck Rogers story _Armageddon 2419 A.D._ Bucky got him new pencils, which seemed kind of lame in comparison, but Steve seemed happy enough with them.

Everything was good, or at least it seemed that way on the surface. Bucky carefully didn’t poke at it because he had an uneasy feeling that if he did, the whole thing would come crumbling down like a house of cards. But for now, it was good.

 

*****

 

**March 1933 (15 yrs)**

“Math is dumb,” Steve grumbled.

Bucky rolled his eyes at the ceiling. They were both sitting on his bedroom floor doing homework and he’d heard that exact same statement, word for word, at least ten times in the last half hour. “Want some help?” he offered, also for the tenth time.

“No,” Steve hunched lower over his paper. “I can do it. I’m not stupid.”

“Never said you were.”

“I can figure it out,” Steve insisted.

Bucky sighed and turned back to the sentences he was supposed to be translating into French. Usually it would be easy - he was good with languages - but at the moment he couldn’t concentrate at all. He was itching to tell Steve what’d happened at lunch today, but Steve had been so determined to get his math homework done that he’d decided to wait to tell him. He was regretting that decision now.

“Math is dumb.”

Bucky’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowed. “Either let me help or stop whining.”

Steve made a grumpy face at him. “I don’t get why I have to learn all this anyway. It’s not like I’m ever gonna use it. I know how to add and subtract and multiply and divide. I’m never going to need to know how to… to calculate triangles. It doesn’t even make sense.”

“It makes sense if you know how to do it.” He’d been nice the first time Steve refused his help, and the second time, and the fifth time. But did they have to repeat this pattern every single time Steve needed help? They both knew how it was going to end.

Steve glared at him resentfully. “Of course it makes sense to _you._ You’re one of the smartest in your class. I’m just dumb.”

“You’re not dumb!” Bucky snapped. “Stop saying that. You just miss a lot of class and with math you have to know every step or it doesn’t work. You missed some steps.”

“You’re still smarter than me,” Steve said stubbornly.

Bucky clenched his jaw and prayed for patience. “And you’re better at drawing. And literature and history.”

“Only because all I can do when I’m sick is draw and read. That doesn’t make me smart.”

“And missing class doesn’t make you stupid. Now, can you please show me what you’re doing so I can help?”

Steve scowled, but finally shoved his math book across the floor to Bucky and started going over what he was trying to do. It didn’t take long for Bucky to figure out where he’d gone wrong and then it was just a matter of finding the right words to explain it without making Steve feel like an idiot.

Fifteen minutes later, Bucky shifted impatiently as he watched Steve successfully complete the next math problem without any help. He flashed Bucky a grin and Bucky gave him a thumbs up. Then he looked down at his translations and sighed. He hadn’t even gone through half of them.

“Lucille let me kiss her,” Bucky blurted out two seconds later.

Steve dropped his pencil and looked up to stare. “What?”

Bucky felt heat start to creep into his cheeks. “Lucille Stephens. At lunch, before you got there. She came up to me and just. Said she liked me and- and told me I could kiss her if I wanted to. So I did.”

Steve blinked at him. “Isn’t she seventeen?”

“I turn sixteen in a few days,” Bucky said defensively. “She’s only one grade above me.”

Steve stared at him and Bucky couldn’t tell what he was thinking, which was strange because Steve was usually pretty easy to read. “How was it?” he finally asked.

“Good, I guess?” Bucky answered, feeling a little uncomfortable now. This conversation hadn’t been this awkward in his head. “I mean, I didn’t really know what I was doing, but she was smiling when she left so I couldn’t have done that bad.”

“Does that mean you’re, you know, with her now?”

“No!” Bucky paused. “I don’t think so? Do you think she wants that?”

Steve gave him a funny look. “She said she likes you.”

“Yeah, but-” Bucky ran out of words, “but she’s seventeen. Why would she be interested in _me?_ She doesn’t even know me. I never said a word to her before today.”

“You’re not exactly ugly, Bucky,” Steve said dryly. “Plenty of girls are interested in you. And maybe she wants to get to know you?”

Bucky felt like he’d been hit over the head with a brick. He knew what he looked like - he knew that now that he wasn’t growing so fast, now that he was filling out a little, he didn’t look half bad. He put _effort_ into making himself look good. Doing his hair every morning was a nightmare - but there was a difference between looking decent and a pretty girl a year older than him saying she liked him.

He deflected with humor, not knowing what else to say. “Are you calling me handsome, Stevie?”

Steve rolled his eyes. “I ain’t saying I want to kiss you, fathead. But did you even think about what she might want? Or did you just go an’ kiss her?”

“She asked me to! She ambushed me. I was caught by surprise. Who says no when a pretty girl walks up and asks you to kiss her? She was all dolled up, wearin’ her best dress. I couldn’t say no to that.”

Steve stared at him for a second, then started laughing and didn’t stop.

Bucky felt a flash of hot embarrassment wash through him. “Shut up,” he said, covering his face with his hands. He wanted to melt into the floor and disappear. “It’s not funny, punk.”

“It’s not funny,” Steve snickered. “It’s hilarious. And that explains why people kept sneaking looks at us all lunch.”

Bucky dropped his hands. “People were looking? People saw?”

Steve covered his mouth with a hand like that would prevent Bucky from knowing Steve was laughing at him. “Well, where were you when you kissed her?”

Bucky paused. Steve watched him expectantly. “In the middle of the lunch room,” he admitted.

Steve snorted. “You’re lucky none of the teachers saw.”

“I know,” Bucky said. “I _know._ I wasn’t thinking. She was- I was-”

“Blinded by her beauty?” Steve suggested, grinning like this was the best thing that’d ever happened to him.

_Yes,_ Bucky thought, getting a flash of warm lips moving against his. The way the heat seemed to spread throughout his entire body. Her light blue dress, wavy blond hair, pink cheeks, and bright smile. How he wanted to keep kissing her and never stop, to- Bucky shook his head, banishing the image.

“What was I supposed to do, say no?” Bucky asked.

Steve shrugged, but didn’t stop smirking. “Does that mean you’re going to take her out?”

“I hate you,” Bucky told him. “Finish your math work.”

Steve, the jerk, laughed at him before picking up his pencil. He was still grinning as he started going through his math problems.

It took Bucky three times longer than usual to finish his French translations because his mind kept going back to Steve’s question. The exact question he’d been trying not to think about. What was he supposed to do now? Was he supposed to ask her out? Did she want him to? What if it was just a kiss? What if it was a joke and all her friends were laughing at him for being a bad kisser? She was seventeen, so why would she choose him over all the other guys she could’ve picked? Didn’t girls usually go after guys a little older than them? Not _younger._

Bucky groaned and flopped back on the floor to stare at the ceiling. “Girls are dumb, Steve.”

Steve just snickered. _Not helpful, Steve._

 

*****

 

Lucille and her friends kept glancing at Bucky in the hallways and either smiling or giggling and whispering with each other. It was confusing and disturbing in equal measure. He had no idea what it meant or how he was supposed to react. The laughing made him think it might have all been a joke, but then Lucille would smile at him in a way that made his mind go blank, kind of sweet and shy but with a sparkle in her eyes that said she was teasing him.

Bucky missed a doorway the first time she smiled at him like that and nearly fell on his ass when he clipped it with his shoulder. He hadn’t told Steve about it, but that didn’t stop him from hearing Steve’s cackling in his head.

“I want to take her out,” he told Steve as soon as they met up after school ended.

Steve’s eyebrows did a little jump. “Lucille?”

“Who else?” Bucky asked. “Yeah. What do you think?”

“I think Lucille is a lucky girl,” Steve said, starting to walk in the direction of the orphanage.

Bucky rolled his eyes and skipped a few steps to catch up. “Yeah, but do you think she’ll say yes?”

“She said she likes you, didn’t she?” Steve said, a little sharper that Bucky thought necessary. “How much clearer do you want it?”

Bucky frowned at him. “What’s eatin’ you?”

“Nothing, Bucky,” Steve sighed, sounding tired. “Just had a bad day. I have a headache and I want to lie down.”

“Oh,” Bucky said, feeling disappointed and then guilty for being disappointed. He’d wanted to ask Steve for ideas on where to take Lucille and how to ask her. “You’re not getting sick, are you?”

Steve shook his head. “Nah. Just a headache.”

Bucky scanned him for any sign he might be lying, but he honestly didn’t look like he was getting sick. He wasn’t any paler than usual, his cheeks weren’t flushed like they got when he had a fever, and his breathing sounded clear. He did look tense and there were pinched lines around the corners of his eyes, but that made sense if he had a headache.

“Okay,” Bucky clapped Steve lightly on the shoulder. “I’ll let you go then.”

“See you tomorrow?” Steve offered, smiling weakly.

“Bright and early,” Bucky said, backing up a step and giving a little wave. “Get better,” he ordered, “’cause it’s my turn to talk your ear off. You still owe me for all that Roosevelt crap.”

“Bucky! You’re talking about the President of the United States. You can’t call the _presidential election_ crap.”

“Too late!” Bucky chirped. He waved his hands for Steve to get going. “Go sit down before you fall down. You can lecture me tomorrow.”

Steve rolled his eyes, then visibly winced. “Tomorrow,” he said firmly and turned around to leave.

Bucky watched Steve walk away and frowned at the tension lining his frame, visible in every step he took. He was walking gingerly, as if setting his feet down too hard would jar his head. How had he missed that? He should have noticed Steve was in pain the second he saw him, not minutes later and only after Steve admitted to it.

 

*****

 

_I can do this,_ Bucky thought, staring at Lucille standing at the other end of the hallway in the middle of a group of girls. ( _Why did they always travel in groups?)_ All he had to do was walk up and ask if he could talk to her. He could do that. He sort of wished Steve hadn’t rushed off to class as soon as they stepped through the front door, but he didn’t need Steve’s encouragement.

His heart starting pounding as soon as he took the first step in her direction, like he was walking towards a fight instead of a girl. He had a feeling an actual fight would be easier, less nerve-wracking, which probably wasn’t how it was supposed to work. Talking to a girl shouldn’t be terrifying enough to make him sweat. But it was. It _was._

Bucky pulled in a deep breath just before he reached them and tried to calm himself. He was only marginally successful.

“Hey,” Bucky said, putting on the most casual smile he could. He was honestly impressed with how calm he sounded. He was great at this. He was smooth and charming and everybody loved him. Then all five girls turned to look at him and all the oxygen left his lungs.

There was a chorus of greetings and some very intense staring. One of the girls giggled.

_I can do this,_ Bucky repeated to himself, a little less certain than before. He wished Steve was here, or at least somewhere within sight, lending silent support. “Can I borrow Lucille for a minute?” he asked the rest of the girls.

The response to that was more grins and giggles and whispers, but Bucky ignored them in favor of focusing on Lucille. She was watching him expectantly, a small smile on her face. He barely noticed the other girls retreating, but he definitely noticed the way his anxiety spiked the second they were alone. Well, as alone as anyone could get in the middle of a high school hallway. They had about an eight foot bubble of open space surrounding them, but he’d bet all his pocket change that people were still listening.

“You said you like me,” Bucky blurted out, which was _not_ what he was supposed to say. Not at all. What the hell, mouth?

“Did I?” Lucille raised her eyebrows.

A wave of icy cold fear washed down Bucky’s spine. She _had_ said that, hadn’t she? He hadn’t imagined it. “Well,” Bucky’s mind threatened to freeze up in panic. “I was hoping you did.”

“Were you?” Lucille asked, tilted her head a little, her smile growing wider. He got the feeling she was enjoying watching him fumble. He wished he could say it irritated him, but it kind of made him like her more.

“I was also hoping you’d agree to let me take you to the pictures on Friday,” Bucky managed to say.

There was a two second pause before she answered during which Bucky’s entire body and soul tensed with blind panic, because _what if she said no?_ He’d never live it down. Everyone would laugh at him. He’d have to run away and move to New Jersey. Or Antarctica.

“I would love to,” Lucille said.

For a long second, Bucky didn’t comprehend the words. Then he grinned so wide he must have looked like a total sap. “You would? I mean, that’s great. Swell.” He closed his mouth before he could start babbling. “I have to get to class, but I’ll talk to you later.”

“Goodbye, Bucky,” Lucille said. She smiled at him, then looked away as her friends descended on her.

Bucky had to rush to class to get there on time and received more than a few raised eyebrows questioning the smile on his face. He didn’t answer any of them, just slid into his seat and tried to calm himself down enough to stop smiling.

It took half an hour for the giddy warmth clogging up his higher brain function to recede, and then about a minute for the gigantic flaw in his plan to hit him. He couldn’t sneak Lucille into the theater like he did with Steve. He’d have to actually buy tickets, and tickets cost money. Money he didn’t have. He’d already spent everything he’d earned last summer and he hadn’t looked around for another job because he was lazy and it was almost impossible to find one these days. There were too many unemployed people and not enough jobs.

This was what happened when he didn’t ask Steve for advice, although in his defense Steve hadn’t exactly been available to question. But how had he missed that _tickets cost money?_ Sneaking in through the back with Steve was fine, but he doubted Lucille would be impressed by it.

Would she care if he changed the plan and took her out for ice cream or a milkshake instead? He didn’t think she would, but what if she did? She’d agreed to go to the pictures with him, not go out for ice cream. He should stick to the original agreement.

Would his Ma give him the money if he asked for it? He wanted to say yes, but he honestly wasn’t sure. He could practically hear her voice in his head saying if he was old enough to take a girl out, he was old enough to earn his own ticket money. She’d been subtly hinting he should get an after school job for ages now, but he hadn’t listened and as much as he didn’t want to admit she’d been right, a little bit of pocket money would’ve been very helpful right about now.

Bucky pulled in a deep breath and focused his attention on his teacher. He’d deal with the money problem later - either ask his Ma or change the plan or find some other way to get the money. Today was Tuesday, so he had three days to figure it out. That was plenty of time. If he asked around, he might even be able to earn the money the proper way. Tickets weren’t that expensive.

 

*****

 

Two hours later, Steve didn’t show up to lunch.

Bucky tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling, then sighed and went to look for Steve. No day could be perfect, he supposed. The bad had to balance out the good, and he had a lot of good to balance out today. Besides, there could be a completely innocent reason Steve had been held up. It wasn’t necessarily something bad.

He checked the main office first, but Steve wasn’t sitting in the chair waiting to get lectured for whatever he’d done wrong. He wasn’t in the nurse’s office either, and the nurse said she hadn’t seen him today. That left Bucky a little stumped. And a lot more worried. A missing Steve rarely meant anything good.

Not knowing which direction was more likely to yield results, Bucky picked one at random and started to search. Luckily, the school wasn’t very big and he only had to double back once before he found what he was looking for.

He heard them before he saw them. That was the only thing that saved him from what would have been an ugly fight followed by Bucky being kicked out of school. He had a feeling nearly beating someone to death on school grounds was more than enough to get him expelled, and that was exactly what would have happened. Hearing them first gave him an extra few seconds to crush down his first instinctive reaction and _think._

Sarah Rogers said to take a deep breath and think about the consequences, so that was what he did. She also said it wouldn’t be easy, and she was right about that too.

Instead of barreling around the corner the way he really, _really_ wanted to, Bucky peeked his head around it and went carefully, quietly still. He didn’t move except to breathe, because if he moved one single muscle the rest of them would follow and before he knew it he’d be slamming his fist into somebody’s face.

“-farm. You know what they do to the runts? They kill ‘em. Bad for the herd, you know? There’s always something wrong with them. They’re _sick.”_

Bucky didn’t hear the rest of the exchange over the muffled roar of blood rushing through his ears. He had to turn away, lean against the wall, and dig his fingernails into his palms to stop himself from reacting. He couldn’t. Not here, not now. He had to be smart about it. He wouldn’t do Steve any good if he was kicked out of school.

_Control._ Bucky sucked in a deep breath. He wanted to _hurt_ them. He wanted to hit them and keep on hitting until they never thought about looking at Steve wrong again. But he couldn’t lose it, not like he had with Vince. He was almost an adult now and he had to act like one. No more throwing himself into fights with no thought for the consequences.

After a few more deep breaths, Bucky peeked his head around the corner again and forced himself to watch and listen. Steve’s face was mostly turned away, but Bucky could picture the exact expression he was wearing. It would be that resolute, unflinching one. The angry, resigned, trying-not-to-react one. Because Steve would go to the ends of the earth to protect anyone else who was being bullied, but when it came to himself he just stood there and took it. He said he didn’t care what people said about him, but Bucky knew the words still hurt.

The funny thing was, he knew that if the fight was physical Steve would be battling it out with everything he had. He wouldn’t back down until he couldn’t stand up anymore. But the fight wasn’t physical, and nobody else was getting hurt, so Steve was going to just stand there and be the best metaphorical punching bag there ever was.

Because _‘they’re just words, Bucky’_ and _‘I don’t care what they say about me’._ Because better Steve than somebody else, right? He could take it.

Last year Steve would've hit them if they so much as glanced in his direction, but he was different this year. Not exactly less reckless or less willing to resort to violence, but he wasn't as quick to throw the first punch. Especially if it was on his own behalf. 

Bucky committed the bullies’ faces to memory. One was Joe Mc-something, two years older than Bucky and in his last year of high school. The other one was also in his last year, either called Melvin or Marvin. He was one of the Sullivan brothers; there were at least five of them as far as he knew. Their mother kept trying for a daughter and ended up having one boy after another. They never did get a daughter, at least not that Bucky’d heard.

They backed Steve into a wall. They called him names, words Bucky knew he’d heard Steve call himself. Weak. Useless. Pathetic. Pansy. Fairy. They poked him to watch him squirm, then slapped the books out of his hands and laughed.

_Fight back,_ Bucky glared at Steve. _Defend yourself,_ but he knew he wouldn’t. Steve wouldn’t throw the first punch, not if he was the only one being hurt.

Mostly out of sight and completely unnoticed, Bucky seethed. He wanted nothing more than to stalk out there and at least chase the bullies away, but he didn’t trust himself to leave it at that. One wrong comment and he’d lose it. He was already on the verge of losing it. He _wanted_ to lose it, that was the problem. Fuck the consequences, he didn’t want to wait.

Bucky’s anger burned hot and bright and fast. He exploded like a firework, then fizzled out into nothing just as fast. He didn’t tend to hold grudges. Now he was trying to compress all that rage into something slower burning, but it felt more like he was holding onto an unpinned grenade and one wrong tap would set it off.

As soon as the bullies winded down and turned to leave, Bucky ducked back around the corner and leaned against the wall. They walked right by him without a second glance. Bucky glared at their backs and imagined setting them on fire with the force of his rage. Then he pulled in a deep breath and did his best to tuck it all away.

_Later,_ he promised himself. Right now, he had to deal with Steve and Steve couldn’t know how angry he was. If he knew that, then he’d know that Bucky saw and he’d want to know why he hadn’t done anything. He always defended Steve. Not doing so was suspicious and he couldn’t exactly tell Steve he’d decided to be smart for once and use his brain instead of his fists.

They were in high school now. They weren’t kids anymore. Brawling in the hallways would have more consequences than the little hand slap and lecture they’d gotten in elementary school. But Steve wouldn’t understand that. Logically, he’d get it, but he’d still be hurt that Bucky just stood there and watched and then he’d try to talk him out of doing anything about it. He definitely wouldn’t approve of the vague plan starting to come together in Bucky’s head.

Aware that he was running out of time, Bucky pushed himself away from the wall and silently crept a few paces backwards down the hallway. Then he rolled the tension out of his shoulders and started forward again. He rounded the corned just in time to watch Steve pick up the last of his fallen papers.

“Hey,” Bucky said.

Steve whirled around, looking a little panicked for a second before his expression shuttered. “Hi. Bucky. Sorry, got held up.”

_'Really, punk?'_ Bucky wanted to say, because that had been so obviously suspect that he would have known something was wrong even if he hadn’t witnessed almost the entire incident.

“It’s fine,” Bucky said aloud. They were both liars now. “Come on. We still have time to eat if we hurry.”

They started to walk in silence. Part of Bucky wanted to ask Steve what happened just to see if he kept up the lie or confessed, and another part of him wanted to yell at Steve and demand an explanation for why he hadn’t told him. Didn’t he trust Bucky to stop it? The rest of him just wanted to give Steve a hug and tell him that everything they said was wrong.

For obvious reasons, Bucky did none of the above.

“So,” Steve said. “Did you talk to Lucille?”

“What?” Bucky’s mind went completely blank for a moment as it struggled to switch tracks. “Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I did. I asked her if I could take her to the pictures on Friday and she said yes.” He couldn’t help but smile at that, even if it was a more subdued smile than the wide grin from earlier.

“That’s great, Bucky,” Steve sounded genuinely happy.

Bucky stared at him, trying to spot any hint that he might be upset about what just happened. He found nothing, a fact that disturbed him and sent a pang through his chest. How long had this been happening right under his nose? A few days? Weeks? Months? Since the beginning of the school year?

“What?” Steve asked, starting to frown.

“Nothing,” Bucky shook his head. “Do you think she’ll let me kiss her again?”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Be respectful,” he ordered. “It’s her choice. Think of your sisters.”

Bucky scrunched his face up and grimaced. “Don’t mention my sisters when we’re talking about kissing. That’s just wrong, Steve. And I’m respectful. I’m always respectful.”

“Good,” Steve said.

They rushed through lunch, mostly in silence as they focused on eating quickly, and for the second time that day Bucky had to rush to get to class on time. The only difference was that this time he wasn't smiling.

The anger came in waves after that, as if it refused to be suppressed for long. He’d be sitting in class halfheartedly listening to his teacher and suddenly be hit by a flash of a memory from the hallway. Then he’d be gritting his teeth and clenching his fists until he managed to shove it all down again.

He couldn’t do anything about the bullies that day no matter how much he wanted to. Steve met up with him as soon as school ended and Bucky didn’t have a good enough excuse to get away from him. He didn’t really want to either. Steve might appear to be perfectly fine with everything, but he’d always been good at hiding his feelings. Leaving him alone felt wrong.

 

*****

 

By the time school ended on Thursday, Bucky was ready. He told Steve he’d gotten a one-time job helping unload delivery trucks to pay for the theater tickets (his actual plan was to ask his Ma for money and promise to pay her back) and waved goodbye at the front of the school.

As soon as Steve turned to head in the direction of the orphanage, Bucky’s eyes locked onto the back of Joe McCutchen’s head. He’d asked around about him a little, carefully and only to people he knew wouldn’t ask questions or spread rumors. His folks were Scottish and he had one younger sister, Emily. His dad worked down at the docks and there was talk that he was a mean drunk.

Joe started to walk and Bucky followed. He’d chosen to deal with Joe because he was the easier target of the two bullies. Unlike Marvin/Melvin, Joe didn’t have a whole army of brothers who might take offense. If this didn’t work he’d have to figure something else out. Testing himself against the Sullivan brothers did not sound like the most intelligent decision. Bucky might be able to throw a decent punch, but he was only one person and he wasn’t _Steve._

Joe seemed to be heading home alone, or at least heading somewhere alone. It was the first bit of luck Bucky’d had in a long time.

He trailed about a block behind Joe until they reached streets that were a little emptier. It would have been safer (and more effective) to do this after dark, but Bucky didn’t have the patience to tail him that long. Already he could feel the anger unfurling in his chest, speeding up his breathing and heart rate, no less strong for all the time he’d had to wait.

Joe hurt Steve, and nobody was allowed to hurt Steve. Steve was his friend and protecting him was Bucky’s job. He might have failed at that lately, but he was going to make up for it now.

As soon as Bucky spotted a convenient alley up ahead, he quickened his steps to catch up with Joe.

“Hey, Joe,” Bucky said. He tried to keep most of the anger out of his voice, but all the acting skills in the world couldn’t have made him sound friendly.

Joe turned around, a look of curiosity and surprise on his face. Maybe a touch of wariness when he recognized Bucky, but not nearly enough. “Barn-” he started to say.

Bucky grabbed his arm before he could finish and yanked him sideways, dragging him into the alley. Joe was about two inches shorter than him, but probably about twenty pounds heavier. He was stocky, where Bucky was lean. Fortunately, Bucky had the element of surprise and Joe stumbled after the first yank, so he had no trouble dragging the older boy deeper into the alley.

“What the hell, Barnes?” Joe demanded as soon as he got his feet under him. He ripped his arm out of Bucky’s grasp and took a step back. “What-”

In one quick movement, Bucky slid the knife out of his pocket, flipped it open, and shoved Joe roughly into the wall. He pressed the knife to Joe’s throat, hard enough for him to feel the press of the cold metal, but light enough not to break the skin.

Joe went still, eyes wide. “Barnes,” he said carefully. “It’s Bucky, right?”

“Shut up,” Bucky snapped. “You know Steve Rogers?”

Joe’s eyes widened a fraction more, but he didn’t answer.

“The _runt,_ ” Bucky sneered. “That’s what you call him, right? Well, did you also hear that we’re pals, me and Steve?”

“You’re going to regret this,” Joe said. He didn’t try to move, not with the knife at his throat, but the look in his eyes promised retribution.

“No,” Bucky said. “I won’t.”

“You’re not going to kill me.” Joe looked a little uneasy, but he sounded certain. “I’m not afraid of you.”

Without giving him a single second of warning, Bucky punched him in the stomach as hard as he could. At the same time, he twisted the knife to press the flat side to Joe’s throat so he wouldn’t accidentally cut him when the older boy doubled over. Then he pressed his other hand to Joe’s chest and shoved him back up against the wall.

Bucky flashed him a grin, doing his best to emulate Moretti’s smile that had unnerved him so much a few years earlier. “You sound so sure of that. How well do you know me, McCutchen? You didn’t go to elementary school with me and Steve. We’ve never even said hello until today. Did you ask around? Hear some rumors?”

Joe looked wary now, but it wasn’t enough. Bucky needed him to be _afraid._ He needed him to never even think about touching Steve again. Wary meant he might go after Steve just to get back at Bucky.

“Do you really think killing you is the worst I could do?” Bucky asked.

Joe glared at him, but still didn’t answer. He looked resentful now. Wary and resentful - definitely not the combination Bucky was going for. He hadn’t thought threatening someone would be this difficult. He’d expected the knife to do most of the work for him. Weren’t bullies supposed to be cowards?

“You have a sister,” Bucky said. He hadn’t intended to use that information against Joe, but he was scraping the bottom of the barrel now. If he didn’t manage to properly scare Joe away from Steve, he’d have just made things ten times worse by trying and failing.

Joe instantly tensed up, his face darkening with anger. “Don’t-”

Bucky punched him in the stomach again, just as hard as the first time. He watched Joe double over as much as he could with the knife still at his throat, and nicely gave him a few seconds to recover.

When Joe looked up again, Bucky _grinned._ (Mostly in relief at finally getting some sort of response. Something he could _use_ ). “Her name’s Emily, right?” he asked. “Maybe I’ll do to her what you do to Steve. How does that sound?”

Joe visibly forced himself not to react. “You have sisters too, Barnes,” he gritted out.

At that, Bucky dropped the Moretti act and had to clamp down viciously on the urge to attack. The act hadn’t been working, but wildly lashing out wasn’t going to get him what he wanted either.

“You even _think_ about going near them, asshole, you better kill me first.” Bucky pressed the knife in harder. He still had the flat side to Joe’s skin, but even so a drop of blood welled up along the edge and slowly trickled down Joe’s neck. Bucky followed it with his eyes, continuing in a low tone, “Because I promise you, you’ll live just long enough to regret it. You’re so sure I won’t kill you. If you lay one finger on my sisters, I will _gut you._ ”

Bucky twisted the knife and traced the tip of it down to the hollow of Joe’s throat, following the trail of blood, then back up to the bottom of his chin, forcing Joe to tilt his head up. The cut was barely more than a paper cut, shallow and small enough that it had already stopped bleeding. People got deeper cuts nicking themselves while shaving. No one would notice it.

“Look me in the eye and tell me I’m lying,” Bucky said, dead serious, and finally flicked his eyes up to meet Joe’s. The best way to sell a lie is to convince yourself you’re telling the truth, and in that moment Bucky honestly wasn’t sure if he was lying or not. The idea of someone hurting Becca or Anne or Eva because of something _he_ did made him want to throw out his morals and do whatever it took to prevent that from happening.

Joe finally looked afraid. It wasn’t as satisfying as Bucky thought it’d be. Instead of feeling pleased or accomplished, he felt sick. Disgusted with himself, because how was this any better than what they had done to Steve? It wasn’t. Two wrongs didn’t make a right, and bullying a bully didn’t make him any better than they were.

But then he remembered Steve, who didn’t deserve any of what they’d done to him, and he felt a little less bad. Maybe he was a terrible person, and maybe he was going to hell, but at least he didn’t bully younger, smaller kids who couldn’t fight back. Or refused to fight back because they were stubborn punks with ridiculous ideas about what was and wasn’t the right thing to do (Defending yourself was always the right choice, but try telling Steve that).

Joe deserved this. Maybe now he’d think twice before bullying people.

“Turn out your pockets,” Bucky demanded on an impulse.

“What?” Joe sounded indignant, but before he’d even finished the word he was moving to do as ordered.

Bucky grinned as eighty five cents was dropped into his hand. “Bully tax,” he said, injecting enough cheer into his voice that Joe was visibly unsettled. “Don’t be an asshole and I won’t take your money.”

Joe stared at him like he was nuts. Bucky grinned wider, then stepped back and flicked the knife at the entrance to the ally. “Go on,” he said. “Consider this your warning. Next time I won’t be so nice.”

Joe scurried out of the alley without saying a word.

Bucky stared after him and let the smile drop. He waited until he was sure Joe was gone, then let himself lean back against the wall of the alley. He tilted his head back to stare at the sky and blew out a breath. That hadn’t exactly gone according to plan, but what ever did?

He was just afraid it wouldn’t work. Joe was scared right now, sure, but would he still be afraid once the immediate fear of having a knife at his throat wore off? What if he realized Bucky was (mostly) bluffing and went after Steve or his sisters to get back at him? What if he’d just made his little sisters a target?

He had a horrible feeling he’d just made a mistake. He should have done more, said more. Of course, thinking about all the things he could have said to scare Joe _now_ didn’t help him five minutes ago.

Bucky pulled in a deep breath and raised his hands to dig his palms into his eyes. He paused halfway there when he realized his hands were shaking. They hadn’t done that in years. He clenched them into fists and lowered them back to his sides.

He kind of wished he’d just beaten Joe up. Punching was easier. Simpler. It didn’t leave him feeling sick and shaky and like he’d done something horribly wrong.

Steve wouldn’t approve of threatening people, but that wasn’t anything new. Steve wouldn’t approve of half the things Bucky did behind his back. He remembered when that used to bother him, and it still did when he thought too hard about it, but it’d been a long time since the thought of Steve’s disapproval made him second guess himself. What Steve didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Not if Bucky took care of it first.

This was necessary. Bucky repeated that to himself as he pushed away from the wall and started walking home. It was necessary. He couldn’t fight off every bully that went after Steve, especially not if Steve didn’t even tell him about them. But maybe, if he could get word spread that Steve wasn’t to be touched, that he wasn’t an easy target, the bullies wouldn’t bother going after him.

If people knew that going after Steve meant dealing with Bucky, he was hoping they’d decide it was too much trouble. He already had a reputation as a fighter ( _thank you, Steve_ ) so all he had to do was exaggerate that a bit and make himself out to be someone not to mess with. It might work. Maybe.

He was just scared someone would take it as a challenge. What would he do then? No matter what he’d implied, he wasn’t going to kill anyone. His morals might be a little looser than Steve’s, but he still had limits. Killing people was definitely _not_ an option. Seriously injuring them wasn’t even an option. That would almost be worse than killing them, because then the police might get involved and he’d be arrested for assault and who’d protect Steve then?

He hated it. This whole situation made him feel like maybe his dad was right when he stared at Bucky with that _look_ in his eyes. He didn’t want to go around threatening people and doing his best to make them afraid of him, but it was the only plan he had.

 

*****

 

On Friday, Bucky starred in a one-man play and acted his heart out. His role was Normal Bucky and he played it so well that Steve didn’t even glance at him funny. He used to be the only one who could see through Bucky’s fake smiles, so to know he’d gotten so good at them he could fool even Steve made him both proud and a little lonely.

And kind of annoyed, to be honest. It wasn’t fair of him to feel that way since he was intentionally trying to fool Steve, but it wasn’t supposed to work so well. Steve was supposed to know him better than that.

But Bucky also hadn’t noticed that Steve was being bullied, so the failure went both ways. He missed the days when they were younger, when they told each other everything and could have entire conversations without saying a word.

Everything was different now. He wanted to say things had changed when Steve’s Ma was taken away, but he knew part of it was just that they were getting older. They weren’t as close as they used to be. There were too many secrets between them, things they didn’t want to talk about and things they deliberately hid from each other.

Most of the secrets were on his end, but that wasn’t something he could fix. If he confessed now, he’d probably break apart whatever they had left. At least they were still friends right now. Maybe they weren’t as close as they used to be, but they were still best friends. He’d take what he could get.

 

*****

 

He thought it would be hard to get in the right mindset for meeting Lucille that night, and it was at first, but as soon as he saw her it was the easiest thing in the world.

They had arranged for Bucky to make his way to the theater on his own and for Lucille to meet him at the front door. Her folks hadn’t wanted her walking across town, not even with Bucky, and he couldn’t drive to pick her up the way he wished he could.

Waving to her folks as they dropped her off was possibly the most awkwardly terrifying moment of his life. They didn’t stop to introduce themselves, but there was definitely some threatening eye contact from Lucille’s father that made him feel like he was about three feet tall. He was kind of surprised they agreed to let her go out with him at all.

Lucille was wearing a dark blue dress with white flowers on it. It was long and the neckline high, modest overall, but form-fitting in a way that made his mouth go dry. Her blond hair was perfect styled and her smile was bright and just a touch shy.

Bucky was wearing a suit. It was cheap and didn’t fit as well as he would have liked, but it was the best one he had. He hoped it was good enough. Becca’d teased him the entire time he was getting ready, poking fun at him as he slicked his hair back and shined his shoes.

“Hey,” Bucky said as he took Lucille’s hand to walk her the short distance down the sidewalk. “You look beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she smiled, and Bucky’s heart seemed to flutter. “You look very handsome as well.”

Bucky’s cheeks threatened to heat up and he was glad the sun was nearly set. Blushing because a girl called him handsome would be a little embarrassing. Her _seeing_ that he was blushing would be humiliating.

Bucky did his best to crush down his nerves as he walked her up to the ticket counter. He could do this. He was good with people and girls were no exception. He flirted with them for fun all the time. He never really _meant_ it before, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t.

“I have to admit,” Bucky smiled a little sheepishly, “I didn’t check what they were showing before I asked you, so I apologize in advance if you don’t like it.” They were showing King Kong, which looked great to Bucky but he was aware it wasn’t the best choice for a date.

“I’ll try not to hold it against you,” Lucille promised.

“Thanks,” Bucky said dryly, like he would with Steve, before he could stop himself. Lucky for him, Lucille just laughed.

They held hands for most of the film, which was incredibly distracting. Her hand was even smaller than Steve’s and so much softer. Warmer, too. Steve’s hands were almost always cold and dry because of his bad circulation. Lucille’s were almost too warm. Bucky kept getting nervous his hand might get sweaty and she’d think he was gross.

She kissed him at the end, right before the lights came back on, and that made it all worth it. He must have done something right if she was still willing to kiss him even when she didn’t like the film all that much. And she definitely didn’t. She said it wasn’t bad, but he could tell she was mostly saying that to be polite. There wasn’t much he could do about that, though.

For his first time taking a girl out, Bucky didn’t think he did that bad overall. And he’d do better next time. He was good at learning from his mistakes. Most of the time, anyway. Next time, he’d ask her out for ice cream.

 

*****

 

The next morning, Bucky woke up to a knee slamming into his ribs as Eva launched herself up onto his bed and started jumping. “Bucky! Bucky! Bucky!” she chanted, then plopped down to sit on his chest. “Are you awake yet?”

“What do you think?” Bucky wheezed, glaring at her without any heat. Six year olds were heavier than they looked.

“Happy birthday!” Eva yelled in his face, grinning cheerfully. “Ma’s makin’ cake! But she said it was a secret, so pretend I didn’t tell you.”

Bucky snorted. “I never heard a word,” he promised. “Now get off. You’re squishing me.”

Eva obediently scrambled off his bed, nearly kicking him right between the legs as she did. He shifted away just in time and got kneed in the bladder instead, making him yelp and nearly piss himself.

“I’ll meet you outside,” he told Eva in a slightly strangled voice. “Gotta get changed.”

“Okay!” Eva chirped and skipped out the door.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Bucky mouthed at the ceiling, then rolled off the bed to grab a change of clothes. He hurried into the bathroom a little faster than normal and nearly moaned in relief when he made it to the toilet. He loved his sisters, but sometimes he really hated them.

Why was everyone always waking him up? He couldn’t sleep in a little even on his birthday?

Five minutes later, Bucky stepped out of the bathroom and nearly leapt out of his skin, letting out a humiliating squeaking noise. Steve, who must have been standing an inch away from the door, burst out laughing. Becca joined in, having watched the whole thing.

“I hate all of you!” Bucky snarled as soon as his heart started beating again. “It’s my birthday! You’re supposed to be nice to me.”

“Are we?” Becca grinned. “Oops.”

Bucky rolled his eyes and turned to Steve. “When the hell did you get here?”

“I heard that!” Winifred called from the kitchen. “Watch your language, James.”

“Yeah, watch your language, Bucky,” Steve frowned at him disapprovingly. “There’s children around.”

“I hate you,” Bucky stated. “So much.”

“Don’t be grumpy, lover boy,” Becca teased. “It’s your birthday. You’re supposed to be happy and joyful and celebrate the gift of life!”

Bucky opened his mouth, then closed it and knocked his head against the wall. “Can I go back to bed and start over?””

Steve laughed. “Nope. So how’d it go with Lucille yesterday?”

“Yes, Bucky,” Becca’s eyes lit up. “How did it go? He wouldn’t tell us anything last night, but he was smiling a big, dumb goofy grin when he got back.”

Bucky jabbed a finger at her. “No.”

Becca pouted at him. “I’m not allowed to be happy for you?”

“No.”

Becca rolled her eyes and stomped off. “I’m returning your birthday present!”

“Good!” Bucky called after her.

Steve raised his eyebrows at him, clearly still curious about last night. Bucky managed to keep a straight face for about two seconds, then grinned.

Steve huffed, somehow looking both amused and exasperated at the same time. “I told you it would be fine.”

Bucky shrugged. “She didn’t like the film all that much, but she let me, you know,” he made a kissing motion, not wanting to say it out loud when he didn’t know who might be listening.

Steve looked like he wanted to dissolve into laughter, but he valiantly kept a straight face. “What film was it?”

“King Kong,” Bucky said, unsuccessfully trying to will himself not to turn red. Why had he done that? “I thought it was great, but I guess it wasn’t really the type of film girls like.”

“Breakfast!” Winifred called.

Bucky perked up, then tilted his head up as he sniffed at the air. “Ma?” he called, abandoning Steve in favor of jogging toward the kitchen. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Happy birthday, honey,” Winifred said, turned away from the stove to give him a quick hug. “And yes, I bought bacon.”

“Ha!” Bucky cheered, pumping a fist in the air. “Hear that, Steve? We’ve got bacon!” He hadn’t had bacon in forever. It was expensive and not always easy to find in stores around here.

“Calm down,” George said, lowering the newspaper he was holding to look at Bucky. “You’d think we were starving you.”

Bucky grinned, unrepentant. “But Dad, it’s _bacon._ ”

George looked unimpressed. “Happy birthday, son. I’m glad you’re happy about the bacon, because we don’t have a gift for you this year.”

Bucky frowned a little because he hadn’t thought they were that bad off with money, then shrugged. “That’s okay. Bacon in a present.”

“Bacon is a present?” Becca repeated as she walked into the room. “Really, Bucky?”

Bucky stuck his tongue out at her, making Eva giggle. “There is no gift better than bacon,” he stated solemnly, ignoring Steve’s little snort from behind him. “Bacon is a gift from God- Ow!” Bucky winced as his Ma whacked him in the back of the head. “What was that for? Why is everyone being mean to me today?”

Winifred glared down at him. “You know what that was for,” she said, then smiled and set a plate down in front of him.

“Bacon!” Bucky whisper-cheered as soon as she turned her back. Steve snickered. Bucky elbowed him.

***

Bucky honestly didn’t mind the lack of birthday presents that year. He was sixteen now and it wasn’t like he was usually flush with gifts. His folks bought bacon, Becca gave him a candy bar, and Anne and Eva gave him badly-drawn but still adorable birthday cards. That was more than enough to make him happy.

His plan for the day consisted of doing absolutely nothing productive for the entire day. This plan was ruined slightly by Steve wanting to go for a walk after lunch - and walking was semi-productive exercise - but Bucky was a nice person and didn’t hold it against him.

Especially when it turned out Steve just wanted to give him his present without having to do it in front of his entire family.

“It’s not much,” Steve said, looking uncharacteristically nervous. “I mean, I don’t have any money. You know I don’t have any money. So I was trying to figure something out, but the only thing I’m good at is drawing, so I drew you a picture.”

Bucky blinked at the rush of words, then waited. When Steve just stared at him, looking vaguely anxious, Bucky prompted, “Well, are you going to give it to me? Or is this some kind of imaginary picture you’re going to transmit to me with your secret telepathic superpowers?”

Steve huffed at him, but did relax a little. “You’re a jerk.”

“That has been established,” Bucky nodded.

Steve rolled his eyes and lifted up the sketchbook that had been dangling at his side. Bucky hadn’t paid it much attention earlier. Steve carried around sketchbooks or notebooks or bits of paper so often that Bucky was more likely to notice when he wasn’t carrying any. He almost always had a pencil and some form of paper to draw on just in case he saw something he wanted to draw or got an idea he just had to put on paper.

“It’s actually two drawings,” Steve said, flipping through the pages to get to the right one. “I couldn’t decide which one to do, so I did both. You can pick whichever one you like better. Or take both.”

“I get to keep one?” Bucky asked, sounding a little too eager. Steve never let him keep any of his drawings. He always said it was because he didn’t like taking pages out of his sketchbook or notebook, but Bucky was pretty sure he just got embarrassed because he never thought they were good enough.

Steve glanced up and smiled. “Yeah, Buck, I’m letting you keep one.”

“This is the best present ever,” Bucky grinned, bouncing on his heels. “I’m gonna-”

“Only if you promise not to hang it on your wall.”

Bucky frowned, wondering if Steve really did have telepathic powers. “But _Stevie-_ ”

“Here,” Steve interrupted, shoving the sketchbook at him.

Bucky stared down at the drawing and couldn’t help but smile. It was him, sitting cross-legged on the floor, Eva in his lap and Anne sprawled out next to him holding her favorite doll. Becca was across from him, looking exasperated like Bucky had just said the dumbest thing ever.

“You are never allowed to complain about being bad at drawing people, Steve,” Bucky said, because it was _perfect._ Maybe the lines were a little rough and he could see a few eraser marks, but the proportions were right and the faces were right and Bucky could almost hear Becca laughing when he looked at it.

“I still can’t-” Steve started, stretching a hand out toward the drawing.

“No,” Bucky said, knowing he was about to point out something he could have done better. He pulled the sketchbook closer to his chest, out of Steve’s reach. “I want this one. It’s mine now, you’re not allowed to say anything bad about it.”

Steve made a face like he was annoyed, but Bucky could see him trying not to smile. “So you don’t want to see the other one?”

“I guess,” Bucky said reluctantly, certain that nothing could be better than this one. Well, maybe if Steve drew a picture of himself and Bucky, but he never drew himself. He couldn’t. No matter how many times he tried, he could never get it right. Even Bucky couldn’t deny that his drawings of himself were off, but it made sense in a way. Even with a mirror it was hard to see yourself the way other people saw you.

Steve reached out to flip the page and Bucky’s eyebrows went up. It was a detailed drawing of the Brooklyn Bridge. “Wow,” he said, lifting it closer to his face. “How long did this take?”

“Awhile,” Steve shrugged when Bucky glanced at him.

“This is great,” Bucky said, looking down again. “Can I keep both? Can I put this one on my wall?”

“No,” Steve said, elbowing him.

Bucky was absolutely putting this one on his wall the second he got home. He’d keep the other one in his drawer, but this one was too good not to show off. Not that the other one wasn’t good, but this was… skillful? Almost professional? It must have taken Steve hours to fill in all the details, and he’d probably had to do a few practice drawings first. He must have spent days working on it.

***

Everyone seemed to be waiting for them in the living room when they got back. Bucky eyed the crowd suspiciously, then turned and eyed Steve, who had the biggest shit-eating grin on his face. Becca was actually covering Eva’s mouth with her hand.

“What?” Bucky asked when no one spoke.

His Dad was the one who answered, although his words made little sense to Bucky. “It’s not a birthday present,” he said. “It’s for the whole family, so don’t go thinking you don’t have to share. Today just happened to be a good day to buy it.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. None of them were holding anything. “Is anyone going to tell me what _it_ is?”

Instead of answering, people started moving. Bucky, feeling bewildered, just stared at them until he realized what they’d all been standing in front of.

“Is that a…” Bucky’s eyes went wide and he stepped forward automatically. “It’s a Philco. These just came out a few months ago, didn’t they?”

It was a radio. It looked huge in their living room across from the couch, the size of a cabinet or a small dresser. It was beautiful. Gorgeous.

“It has push buttons,” Becca grinned. “To tune the station.”

“Have you turned it on yet?” Bucky asked. “It works?”

“Of course it works,” George said. “I bought it brand new.”

“Turn it on,” Bucky said eagerly. “Can I turn it on? How’s the reception? Can we get a lot of stations? How’s the sound?”

A few minutes later, after figuring out how it worked and fiddling with it a bit to find a station, music started to play.

Bucky laughed, grabbed Steve, and twirled them in a circle. Then he did the same with Eva, who was much more enthusiastic about dancing with him. He tried to dance with Anne, but she hid behind Becca, so Bucky grabbed her instead, whirling her around in a circle.

“This is the best day ever,” Bucky announced.

“So which is better?” Becca asked, swatting his hands away. “The radio or bacon?”

Bucky hesitated a second longer than he should have and everyone laughed at him. “The radio,” he decided, but he knew it was too late. He was going to be hearing about that one for ages.

They spent the rest of the day sprawled out on the living room floor, having stolen all the cushions off the couch, figuring out which radio stations they could get and arguing over which one to listen to.

The next night, Steve and his Dad teamed up and forced everyone to listen to Roosevelt explain the banking crisis. Bucky sighed like it was the worst thing ever and refused to admit to Steve that it was even the slightest bit interesting. Roosevelt was a good speaker, but Bucky was _not_ going to give Steve any reason to talk more about politics than he already did.

 

*****

 

For the next two weeks, Bucky stared at Joe every single time he passed him in the hallway. Joe never met his eyes, never acknowledged him, but he didn’t go anywhere near Steve either. Bucky made sure of that. He sacrificed the candy bar Becca gave him for his birthday (it was a very painful sacrifice) to bribe one of the quieter boys in Steve’s class to keep an eye on him for a week and tell Bucky if Joe or the Sullivan brother went near him.

Unless the boy was lying, and Bucky really didn’t think he was, neither of the bullies spoke a single word to him.

The knife threat worked, at least for now. Bucky doubted it would last forever, but now that he knew Steve wouldn’t necessarily tell him if something was wrong, he knew to keep an eye out for it. He’d deal with it if it became a problem again.

Steve started eying Bucky suspiciously after the first week, probably suspecting he had done something to make the bullies back off. He even tried to subtly question him about it, asking if he’d gotten into any fights recently, but Bucky wasn’t bruised and neither was anyone else, so he couldn’t prove anything.

Steve couldn’t ask what he really wanted to ask without giving away that he’d been being bullied, and he obviously didn’t want to do that, so it was easy enough for Bucky to dodge his questions.

He took Lucille out again the following week, to ice cream this time. It didn’t go badly, but it didn’t go great either. Without a film to watch, they both found out very quickly that they had almost nothing in common to talk about. Lucille lost interest every time Bucky tried to talk about baseball or any other sports team and Bucky lost interest every time Lucille started to talk about the church socials she was involved with, or fashion or clothes or sewing. Neither of them wanted to talk about the news, so they mostly ended up halfheartedly chatting about school.

Bucky felt bad about it, but he honestly found her kind of boring. She was a nice enough girl and he was tempted to keep taking her out so he could keep kissing her, but he could practically hear Steve’s voice in his head berating him for being dishonest and taking advantage. He didn’t ask her out again.

 

 

 


	7. 1934

**February 12, 1934 (16 yrs)**

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Bucky asked, watching as Steve, for some inexplicable reason, shoved all of his paints into a shopping bag. Bucky’d bought them for him at Christmas and had fun watching colorblind Steve Rogers try to blend them into the right shades. Paints might not have been the most well thought out gift he’d ever given Steve, but once he stopped laughing and helped Steve out, he didn’t think they were the worst gift either.

Steve glanced up to send him a sharp glare, either because he knew what Bucky was thinking about or because this was the fifteenth time he’d asked that question in the past half hour.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Steve said, then went back to ignoring Bucky.

Bucky sighed and leaned heavier against the wall next to Steve’s bed. He watched Steve toss his new paintbrush into the shopping bag as well and wondered again how he’d paid for it. And why it was three times the size of his old one. It looked too big and clumsy to actually paint with, but he supposed Steve was the expert. Maybe he wanted a bigger brush so it wouldn’t take so long to paint the background?

“You don’t have to come,” Steve suddenly spoke up, breaking the silence.

Not this again. Rolling his eyes, Bucky pushed away from the wall and straightened up. “If you’re going, I’m going. I just don’t understand why we’re going at all.”

“Because,” Steve said, then stuffed the bag of paints under his bed.

“Maybe if you told me _why-_ ”

“Can you get us inside?” Steve interrupted.

“Yes,” Bucky snapped, starting to get irritated.

Steve nodded. Bucky waited for him to start talking, to explain, but all he did was stare off into the distance, seemingly deep in thought.

Bucky gritted his teeth in frustration. “ _Thank you, Bucky,_ ” he mocked. “That’s what you’re supposed to be saying, Steve. Do you think it was easy to,” he lowered his voice just in case one of the nuns or kids walked by, “figure out how to break into our school in the middle of the night? Let me tell you, it was not.”

Steve blinked at him, like he couldn’t possibly understand why Bucky might be a little pissed off right now. Bucky clenched his jaw so hard his teeth started to ache. He hadn’t been planning on telling Steve exactly how he’d acted on their conversation a week ago -

_(”Hey, Bucky, do you think you could get us into the school after it closes? After dark?”_

_“What? Why?” Bucky stared at him in bewilderment. They’d been in the middle of debating which hair color looked better on girls, so the unrelated question came out of nowhere._

_“Could you?” Steve asked._

_“Sure,” Bucky said automatically, then actually thought about it. “Maybe. Am I allowed to break a window or do I have to pick the lock?”_

_Steve tilted his head like he was actually thinking about it. “Picking the lock would be better. No property damage.”_

_“Well,” Bucky said. “I don’t actually know how to pick a lock, but I could learn. It can’t be that hard.”_

_“Could you?” Steve asked, an expectant look on his face._

_“What, for real?” Bucky laughed, then stopped when Steve didn’t laugh with him. “Wait, is that a serious question?”_

_“Yes,” Steve said._

_Bucky frowned at him. “Please don’t tell me you actually want to break into our school.”_

_Steve had the gall to give him that wide-eyed, injured baby animal expression that Bucky pretended he could resist, but they both knew he always fell for. “It’s for a good reason.”_

_Bucky stared at him, then said, “Okay,” because he was an idiot. “But why?”_

_Steve changed the subject instead of answering and Bucky let it go, assuming he’d tell him later. He did not.)_

-but after a solid week of absolutely zero explanations, not even a single _hint_ , Bucky couldn’t stand it anymore.

He jabbed a finger at Steve, barely remembering to keep his voice down. “Learning how to pick a lock is not as easy as you seem to think it is, pal. I had to ask sixteen people before I found someone who both knew and was willing to take pity on me. And I couldn’t ask anyone connection to our school, so I was stuck sneaking into bars, Steve. I spent all week cozying up to criminals trying to convince one of them to help me out. And you know what every single one of them asked me? Do you?”

“No,” Steve said carefully.

“They asked me _why,_ Steve. And you know what I answered? I said I didn’t know. Because I have no fucking clue why I just spent a week sneaking into bars and nightclubs and talking to strange men in back alleys.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“Yeah, Steve, you kinda did. How the hell did you expect me to learn how to _break into a building?_ Was I supposed to read a book about it? Breaking and Entering for Beginners? Lock-picking for the Criminally Inclined?”

“You didn’t- I told you you didn’t have to come!” Steve burst out, too loud for someone not to have heard.

_“Shh!”_ Bucky hissed, glancing back at the open doorway. “When will you get it through your thick skull that _I. Am. Coming._ You think I’m going to let you break into a building on your own? Without me there to help you'll do something stupid and reckless and get yourself caught.”

That pissed Steve off. “Fuck you,” he said in a low voice, almost a growl. His fists were clenched at his sides. “I don’t need your help.”

“Boo hoo,” Bucky mocked. “Too fucking bad. You-”

And that’s when Steve punched him.

Bucky really should have seen it coming. He couldn’t even say he didn’t deserve it. He was being an asshole and he knew it. He just didn’t care enough to reign it in. He’d had a shitty week and spent a truly uncomfortable amount of time making nice with people he wanted to punch in the face. And Steve _still_ wouldn’t tell him _anything._

So Bucky got punched in the face. Knowing he deserved it didn’t make it any easier to deal with, and it definitely didn’t stop the surge of anger that rose up in response. His cheek was throbbing in time with his heart beat.

Bucky instinctively pulled an arm back to throw a punch of his own ( _see if Steve liked that_ ) before freezing at the startled look on Steve’s face. As Bucky watched, his expression hardened into something stubborn and determined. His arms remained at his sides, but he tilted his chin up. He was bracing for a hit, but not even trying to defend himself.

Bucky whirled around and slammed his fist into the wall next to Steve’s bed. The explosion of pain that radiated up his arm from his knuckles was just enough to take the edge off and keep him from retaliating. As much as he wanted to hit Steve, he knew he’d regret it if he actually did it.

Without saying a word, Bucky stormed past Steve and out of the building.

He was halfway home before he calmed down enough to unclench his fists. He laughed a little when he realized his knuckles hurt more than his cheek. Two of them were bleeding sluggishly, but when he carefully flexed his hand it didn’t feel like any bones were broken. That was lucky.

He needed to stop punching things when he got angry. One of these times he was going to miscalculate and break his hand and then he’d really be in trouble. At least he hadn’t hit Steve. He had enough distance now to know that that would’ve been bad.

It wasn’t like they never hit each other. They fought sometimes, for real and for play, but Bucky always, _always_ made sure he controlled how hard he hit. Steve would hate him for it if he knew, but Bucky would never risk actually injuring him. Bruises were one thing, but when Bucky was genuinely angry he lashed out. He hit hard. Sometimes too hard. He broke noses and made people see double. He never wanted to hit Steve like that. He tried not to hit _anybody_ like that, not anymore. It was fine when he was a kid, when he wasn’t strong enough to do any serious damage, but hitting someone as hard as he could now would not end well.

Maybe he should visit that gym his friends from baseball kept inviting him to. Goldie’s. He always said no because he already spent more than enough time hitting things, but he was better off hitting a punching bag than a wall. He’d tried the whole ‘breathing through it’ thing that Steve’s Ma recommended and it helped. He hadn’t completely lost it on anyone in over a year. He only punched people exactly as many times as he had to to get them away from Steve when Steve started a fight.

But sometimes he just needed to hit something. Maybe it was a personal flaw, but he couldn’t keep his temper in check forever. He’d tried. He could hold it back and redirect it, but if he kept squashing it down it started to build up. Little things began to irritate him and he’d start snapping at people and acting like a jerk. Eventually he’d lose it and do something stupid like pick up a metal bar and wreck destruction on some poor unsuspecting abandoned building. Or nearly hit Steve and then nearly break his knuckles punching a wall.

Next time his friends asked, he decided, he was going to say yes. He’d go to the gym and hit a punching bag until he couldn’t feel his arms.

 

*****

 

Steve ignored him the next day in school. Bucky kept expecting him to show up to apologize or talk or at least confirm what time they were meeting up at the school that night, but he never even said hello. He skipped lunch and Bucky ate with the baseball team, still too frustrated with Steve to even think about chasing him down.

He grudgingly decided to corner Steve when school ended, needing to know if their plans for the night were still on or if the break-in was canceled or rescheduled, but Steve either left early or learned to teleport, because Bucky waited in front of the school for ages, until all the teachers had left and the doors were locked, and Steve never came out.

Frustrated beyond belief and starting to feel a little abandoned, Bucky trudged home. He threw himself onto the couch to listen to the radio and pretended he wasn’t hoping Steve would knock on the door any second now.

By the time eight o’clock rolled around and dinner was over, he was forced to admit that Steve wasn’t coming.

Did that mean their plans were canceled? Or had Steve decided he was doing it alone?

Knowing how stubborn Steve was, he was most likely planning on going alone just to prove he didn’t need Bucky’s help. _Fucking punk._

For the rest of the evening, Bucky waited anxiously for everyone to go to bed and tried to figure out what to do. Lights out at the orphanage was at ten for the older kids, but Steve would have to wait until at least eleven to sneak out.

If there was even a slight possibility Steve was going, he had to go too. He wasn’t sure if Steve was actually planning on breaking a window if Bucky didn’t show up, but he couldn’t take the chance. With Steve’s luck, he’d either slice himself up on the broken glass or someone would hear the window shattering and call the coppers on him. Bucky did not want to wake up tomorrow to the news that Steve was in jail. Or in the hospital getting himself stitched up.

***

As soon as Bucky was relatively certain everyone was asleep, he rolled out of bed, got dressed as silently as he could, and crept down the stairs and out the door.

It was _freezing_ outside. Literally. He nearly killed himself when he unthinkingly hopped down the last step and landed on a patch of ice. His feet flew out from under him and it was only his desperate flail for the railing that saved him from cracking his head open on the steps.

That woke him up. Bucky righted himself with wide eyes and a pounding heart and was extremely careful with where he placed his feet for the next half a block until he realized his caution was pointless. The ice was all but invisible in the dark and he slipped on it every few feet no matter how hard he tried to avoid it.

He was shivering before he made it two blocks down the street. The wind whipped straight through his coat and pants like they weren’t even there. He wanted to speed up, to move faster, but the ice was everywhere. It’d rained around dinner time and apparently every single drop of water on the ground had frozen when the temperature dropped. Any faster than a painfully slow shuffle and he was in danger of falling.

It was miserable. Absolutely miserable. And if he was this cold, he didn’t want to think about how bad it must be for Steve. There was barely a scrap of fat on him to insulate him from the chill. His coat wasn’t that great either and the soles of his shoes were so worn through that he’d taken to layering the bottoms with newspapers.

Bucky was so relieved when he reached the school that it took him a minute to realize there was no sign of Steve anywhere. It shouldn’t have surprised him, but he felt his stomach sink anyway. Was Steve even coming? If he’d made this walk for nothing he really was going to punch Steve in the face.

Clenching his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering, Bucky slowly circled the school to make sure Steve hadn’t gone around to the back. There were no broken windows and no Steve.

When he made it back to the front of the school, he turned in a circle. The streets were deserted, dark and empty. The little light there was glinted off the slick ice coating the streets and sidewalks. He had no idea when or if Steve was going to show up, but if he stayed outside for much longer he was going to end up with hypothermia or frost bite.

He could keep walking to the orphanage… but he’d still be trapped outside in the cold. The windows were locked from the inside unless someone unlocked them. Steve could sneak out, but Bucky couldn’t sneak in.

Why did Steve have to do this in February? He couldn’t have picked a slightly warmer month?

Bucky stood there shivering for five more minutes (it felt like an hour) before giving up and shuffling around to the back again. His feet were going numb and he couldn’t feel his face.

He squinted at the lock on the back door for a long moment before clumsily pulling out the thin metal stick-things he’d borrowed from the man who taught him how to use them. He had to return them in three days or the guy would ‘find him, take his tools back, and stick them in his fucking eyes’. Bucky wasn’t planning on keeping them for any longer than he had to.

He got to work.

Unfortunately, numb hands did not lend themselves well to delicate, finicky little movements. He couldn’t feel what he was doing, which meant he was mostly just poking around blindly and hoping he’d miraculously get lucky and the door would just swing open.

But Steve was the one with the uncommon luck, so fifteen minutes later Bucky was no closer to unlocking the door than he’d been at the start. He had his gloves off now, hoping that might give him a little more feeling for what he was doing, but all it seemed to do was make his hands feel like they’d been set on fire. Cold could burn as bad as heat and the pain went down to his bones.

He was about thirty seconds away from screaming in frustration and smashing a window (or _all_ the windows) when he finally managed it.

He yanked the door open, ducked inside, and slammed it shut behind him. Then he stood there in the dark and wanted to cry. It wasn’t any warmer inside than out. The wind was gone and that helped, but the heating was off and the air was still bitterly cold. If it wasn’t so dark he knew he’d be able to see his breath.

One minute of self-pity was all he allowed himself. Once that was over, he stomped around in a circle in an attempt to restore feeling to his feet and cupped his hands in front of his face to warm them with his breath.

He hated winter.

***

For what felt like an eternity, Bucky paced back and forth next to the front door, peeking out the window every few seconds in search of Steve. His hands and feet ached and tingled, never entirely defrosting but not quite cold enough to go numb. He had to sniffle every two second to stop his nose from dripping.

He didn’t know how long he’d been here, walking back and forth, but it must’ve been at least an hour. It felt like longer. He was almost certain that Steve wasn’t coming, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave. Not yet. Five more minutes, that’s what he kept telling himself. Five more minutes and then he’d go home.

He was going to end up freezing here all night and tomorrow Steve would ask why he was so tired and what was he supposed to say then? That he broke into the school on the off chance Steve might show up, even after he punched him in the face? He couldn’t say that. It sounded pathetic.

When he spotted the tiny, hunched figure stumbling down the sidewalk he thought he was hallucinating, that the cold had somehow gotten inside his brain and was showing him what he wanted to see. He squinted at the figure in disbelief until it turned up the short path leading to the school.

Bucky fumbled for the lock and shoved the door open so violently that Steve leapt back, startled, and almost fell.

“Sorry,” Bucky said, but didn’t hesitate to grab Steve and yank him inside. He shut the door a second later, not wanting to let in more cold than necessary.

“Bucky?” Steve gaped at him. “What are you doing here?”

“What am _I_ doing here?” Bucky repeated incredulously. “What are _you_ doing here? Christ, you’re shaking. It’s gotta be below zero outside and you don’t even have gloves on. You’re going to give yourself pneumonia again.” He grabbed Steve’s hands and wrapped them in his own slightly warmer ones.

Steve ripped his hands away, glaring. “You weren’t supposed to come.”

“Because you’d rather break a window?” Bucky asked sharply. “What happened to avoiding property damage?”

Steve bent down instead of answering right away, grabbing the - bag? - that he must have dropped. “Well, you got me in. No property damage. You can go now.”

“What?” Bucky blinked at him, startled and a little offended. “No.” He wasn’t leaving now. Not even if Steve was still mad at him. Which was completely unfair, by the way. Bucky acted like an asshole, yeah, but he paid for that when he got punched.

“Yes,” Steve said, and he wasn’t joking in the slightest. His voice was calm, but firm. “I want you to leave. I don’t want you here.”

“What do you mean?” Bucky asked, halfway hoping Steve was playing a cruel joke on him.

“I _mean,_ ” Steve clenched his jaw so hard Bucky could see his muscles move, “I want you to _go._ ” 

Bucky took a tiny step back, suddenly feeling unsure. He’d missed something, but he didn’t know what. He didn’t understand why Steve was so mad at him. They argued all the time; they always had. Steve didn’t usually get mad enough to hit him, but this wasn’t the first time it’d happened either. They always made up the next time they saw each other, apologized and laughed it off. Why was this time different?

“Steve-” Bucky started.

“ _Go,_ ” Steve cut him off, gesturing sharply at the front door. Then he turned and started to walk away.

For a long second, Bucky just stared at his back. Then he stumbled after him on suddenly numb feet. “Steve, wait!” he called, and he sounded desperate and pathetic but he didn’t care. “I’m sorry. For- for whatever I did. For being an asshole. I didn’t mean it. I was just- Don’t-”

Don’t what? What was happening? He didn’t understand.

Steve spun around and all Bucky could see was anger. “Go away.”

“No,” Bucky snapped, his own anger rising in response. “You don’t get to just- whatever you’re trying to do.”

“Fine. Then at least- Go sit over there.” Steve pointed down the hallway behind Bucky, toward the front door.

“Why?” Bucky asked, trying and failing not to be offended.

“I don’t want you to see what I’m doing,” Steve said, his voice calm again. Carefully controlled, like he was still angry but trying not to show it. “You can watch to see if anyone comes looking. I’m going to light a candle and someone might see the light through the window.”

That made sense. It was a logical explanation, but Bucky couldn’t help but feel like Steve was just using it as an excuse to get rid of him. Like when his Ma used to make him and Becca sit in opposite corners when they were little and wouldn’t stop fighting.

Bucky nodded and turned away without another word. There was a lump in his throat and his eyes were stinging, but he refused to let a single tear fall. He was too old to cry and he had no reason to. He was overreacting because it was late and he was tired and cold.

It was his own fault Steve was acting this way. Him and his stupid temper. He’d been in a bad mood and he took it out on Steve and now Steve was rightfully mad at him. He was tired of Bucky’s bullshit and that was completely fair. He wasn’t always the nicest person to be around and it wasn’t right that he expected Steve to just put up with it.

Bucky wandered over to the front door and made to sit down, only to pause when he realized he couldn’t sit and see out the window at the same time. He glanced back at Steve, who was pulling out… his paints? Bucky stared at him a second, then looked away. Steve didn’t want him to see.

After thinking for a minute, he crept into one of the classrooms bordering the front of the school and scanned the room. There was a table near one of the windows that he could probably shove over a few feet and sit on. Then he’d be able to both sit and keep an eye out.

When he got closer, he saw there was a fishbowl on the table with a little fish swimming around in circles in it. Class pet? That wasn’t fair. How come his class never got a fish?

He carefully moved the fishbowl over to a desk, then shoved the table a few feet over until it thudded against the coat closet on the other side of the window. If he sat sideways, he could lean back against the coat closet and stare out the window, which was exactly what he did. It was dark and there was nothing particularly interesting to look at, but he’d be able to see anyone coming.

He waited and tried (and failed) not to think about Steve.

He waited.

 

*****

 

“Bucky.”

Bucky sucked in a startled gasp, then flailed and fell, landing hard on the cold floor. For a long moment he was completely disoriented until he remembered he was in a classroom in the high school in the middle of the night. Fuck, he was cold. He must have drifted off.

“You okay?” Steve asked in a strange, cautious tone. He was standing across the room in the doorway, looking hesitant to come closer.

Bucky almost flinched back when he remembered their last conversation. “I’m fine,” he said, and it came out rougher than he meant it to. He swallowed, but his mouth was as dry as his throat. He should have thought to bring something to drink. What time was it?

Bucky picked himself up off the floor and glanced out the window. It was still dark. That was good, but it didn’t tell him anything about the time except ‘before dawn’. It could be 1 am or it could be 4 am.

Bucky opened his mouth to ask Steve, then closed it when he saw the tight, shuttered expression on Steve’s face. “You done?” he asked instead.

Steve gave him a short nod.

“Right,” Bucky muttered to himself. He shoved the table back to where he’d found it and carefully replaced the fishbowl, making sure there was no evidence anyone had been in here. Then he winded his way through the desks toward Steve.

When Steve turned to walk in the direction of the front door, Bucky went the other way. He could smell the paint and there was no way he was leaving without seeing what Steve had done. He’d nearly turned himself into an icicle for this painting. He was going to at least glance at it.

“What are you doing?” Steve asked sharply from behind him.

Bucky ignored him and kept going. Steve was already mad at him. He doubted he could make it much worse.

He saw the heart first, nearly two feet tall, painted directly on the wall in the middle of the hallway. After a long moment of confusion, he remembered Valentines Day was tomorrow. That didn’t explain why Steve was being so secretive about it. And since when did Steve do anything for Valentines Day? It wasn't even a real holiday.

He had to squint to make out the rest in the dark, but when he finally registered what he was seeing he felt like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water down his spine. He froze up so completely he was pretty sure his heart stopped beating.

“Steve,” he said, then went quiet. He stared, eyes darting from one section to the next. Steve, standing a few feet down the hallway, didn’t say a word.

‘All Love is Equal’ the words said, written in large block letters. Then the figures, more symbolic than the life-like people Steve usually drew. Two men kissing. Two women. A black man and a white woman.

Bucky blinked, but the image didn’t change. “We have to get out of here,” he said, but didn’t move. He couldn’t pull his eyes away from the two men kissing, right in the center of the heart. _Fairies,_ he thought. Did this mean Steve was like that? Queer? People called him that, but only because of how he looked- small and frail instead of big and tough. It was an easy insult. If they actually thought he was like that they’d be much, much crueler.

When he finally managed to yank his eyes away and look at Steve, he saw Steve watching him with an expression devoid of feeling. Bucky shivered and wasn’t sure if it was from the cold or from fear. If people found out Steve was the one who painted this…

“We have to leave,” Bucky said, injecting urgency into his words. He stumbled back a step, heart suddenly racing. “ _Fuck,_ Steve. What were you thinking? They’ll- Do you know what will happen if they catch us? They’ll put us in jail. Beat us to death. Do you know what people will _say?”_

Steve just watched him, not smiling, not frowning. “I told you not to come.”

And then Bucky got it. All the pieces fell into place. Steve wasn’t mad at him- he was afraid of him. Of his reaction. But Steve fucking Rogers never showed fear, so he tried to push Bucky away before he could leave.

Bucky gaped at him for a long second before anger rose like a tsunami inside him. He tried to hold it back, not wanted to mess things up between them more than he already had, but it was too much. Taking a deep breath was about as effective as trying to put out a house fire with a teacup.

“ _Fuck you,_ Steve,” Bucky gritted out, digging his nails into his palms. He wasn’t going to hit him. “Fuck you. You think after all the shit you’ve put me through _this_ will be the thing that scares me off?”

Steve’s tense expression slackened into something more surprised.

“But you know what does offend me?” Bucky continued, stalking forward and shoving Steve back a step. “That you didn’t trust me. That after you punched me in the face - which I admit I deserved - instead of trying to fix things you ignored me. You acted like I did something wrong by showing up when you’re the one who asked me for help.”

Steve’s face fell, but Bucky didn’t let himself feel bad. “I’ll see you at school tomorrow,” he said, then spun on his heels and walked away from Steve exactly like Steve had done to him earlier.

“And wash your fucking hands!” he called over his shoulder. Steve always got paint on his hands and no matter how mad Bucky was, he still didn’t want Steve to get caught.

Steve didn’t chase after him and didn’t try to call him back. Bucky walked out into the cold in silence.

 

*****

 

He made it back to bed without getting caught. That was probably the only positive to the entire night.

Unfortunately, he was too fired up to sleep. His body was heavy with exhaustion, but the anger was a low thrum in his chest, a burning in his stomach that couldn’t be ignored. He didn’t think he’d ever been this mad at Steve in his life. Insulted, to be honest. They’d been friends for six years and Steve should know him better by now. Should trust him. Why wouldn’t Steve trust him?

And yet, as angry as he was he couldn’t stop himself from worrying. He was worried about Steve walking home alone in the cold, worried he’d get caught sneaking back in, worried someone would figure out it was him who made the painting. Worried that he and Steve wouldn’t be able to fix things, that this was the end and they wouldn’t be friends anymore.

He didn’t let himself think about the painting itself or what it might mean. It was too much and he didn’t know where to start, so he focused on everything else instead.

For the rest of the night, he tossed and turned restlessly. The sky gradually lightened as the sun peeked over the horizon, and still he couldn’t sleep. He stared at his ceiling and listened to his dad get ready for work, then listened to his Ma move around, getting ready for the day.

He was just starting to feel like he might be able to fall asleep when his Ma knocked on his door.

“I’m up,” Bucky called, resigned to his fate. School was going to be hell.

The only advantage to not sleeping was that he got up so fast he was the first person into the bathroom. That never happened. He always had to wait forever for his sisters to finish brushing their hair or whatever else they did in there that took so long.

His Ma was on him the second he stepped into the kitchen, frowning and pressing a hand to his forehead. Bucky swatted her away. “I’m fine. I’m not sick. I just didn’t get much sleep.”

Winifred frowned at him. “Did you fight with Steve again?”

“Why’s it have to be about Steve?” Bucky complained. Was he always so obvious?

“If you’re not sick, you’re going to school,” Winifred said sternly, looking at him like he was expecting an argument.

Bucky just nodded and dodged around her to slump into a seat at the table. As miserable as it was going to be, he couldn’t skip school today. He wanted to see everyone’s reactions to the painting and he needed to make sure nobody suspected Steve was the culprit. He wasn’t looking forward to seeing Steve himself and he definitely didn’t want to talk to him, but he suspected Steve would be too tired to argue anyway. Bucky sure was. They could avoid each other for a day and sort it out tomorrow.

 

*****

 

Steve wasn’t in school. Bucky should have guessed that one. After being up all night and out in the cold, the nuns probably took one look at him and sent him back to bed. They’d been careful with Steve’s health ever since he got sick, had an asthma attack, and nearly stopped breathing on them. Bucky couldn’t blame them. No matter how many times he saw it happen, watching Steve’s lips start to turn blue from lack of oxygen never failed to utterly terrify him. Most of his attacks didn’t get that bad, especially not now that he was older, but he swore every time one did it took years off his life.

The rest of the school went insane over the painting. It was all anybody talked about all day. The general response was anger and disgust, but there was an undercurrent of delight to it that made everybody excited. It didn’t matter what the message was, the students were just thrilled someone had been daring enough to do it.

The teachers and administration were a lot less enthused. They were on a witch hunt to find the offender, but everybody could tell they didn’t have a clue where to start. There were rumors going around that they were interrogating the cleaners because they were the last ones in the building and the only people with keys besides the principal and secretary.

They had the painting covered by taped up papers before the first hour was up, but the effort came too late. The entire school had already seen it and guessing who might have done it had turned into a game of sorts.

By lunchtime, Bucky had resorted to ignoring everyone around him out of self-preservation. The second wind that had carried him through the first half of the day was gone, worn off, and any horizontal surface was starting to look like a bed. He’d sleep on the floor in the middle of the hallway if he thought he could get away with it.

***

“Who do you think it was?”

Bucky’s entire being twitched in annoyance as he stared down at the food he was supposed to be eating. Bread, mystery soup, and creamed carrots. He missed when his Ma used to pack his lunch, but the high school had a lunch program that cost less, even if the food was kind of disgusting. He usually wasn't picky, but he was too tired to be hungry.

“Ba- _arnes,_ ” someone sang, waving a hand in front of his face. “You alive in there?”

Bucky looked up and blinked. Everyone at the table was staring at him. “What?”

“Who do you think did it?” Ray asked.

Bucky did not throw his bread at Ray, no matter how much he wanted to “How should I know?”

“Was it Steve?” a short, chubby boy asked.

Bucky squinted at him, scowling. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Gee, Barnes,” the boy said as a chorus of snorts and chuckles rose up. “Thanks for letting me know how insignificant I am. I’ve only been sitting here for the past six month. Arnie Roth.”

“Oh,” Bucky said, scrubbing his hands over his face. The boy did look vaguely familiar. Actually, he was pretty sure he’d heard Steve mention his name a few times too. “Sorry. I’m a little out of it today.”

“We noticed,” Ray said dryly, then turned to Arnie. “Steve Rogers? Why him?”

“He draws,” Arnie shrugged. “And it seems like something he’d do.”

“Steve’s sick,” Bucky interrupted, wanting to end this line of conversation. “And he doesn’t paint. He’s colorblind.”

“Really?” Ray’s eyebrows went up, along with several others.

A little too late, Bucky realized that Steve being colorblind might not be the best thing to spread around. He was already bullied enough as it was.

“I bet it was a girl,” Ray said, moving on. “They’re into that everybody loves everybody stuff.”

Bucky sighed and dropped his eyes to his mystery soup again. Minor crisis averted, he felt exhaustion settling over him like a heavy blanket.

“Are you sure Steve didn’t get _you_ sick?” Arnie asked.

Bucky shrugged listlessly. “You know, I bet he did.” That was as good an explanation as any for why he was so tired.

Ray leaned away from him. “Don’t pass it on to me. I heard the flu that’s going around right now is brutal. Tom was in bed for a week and he never gets sick.”

“Great,” Bucky said, and swirled his soup in a slow circle with his spoon. He hoped Steve wasn’t actually sick then. Bad for normal people meant Steve would most likely end up in the hospital and that was the last thing Bucky needed right now.

 

*****

 

When school ended, Bucky dragged himself home and went straight to bed.

Well, that was what he wished he did. He fantasized about it as he walked in the opposite direction to the bar where he’d met the guy who gave him the lock picks. He had until tomorrow to return them, but in his opinion sooner was better. The man hadn’t exactly been the friendliest person Bucky’d ever met.

It was a long walk, but he only had himself to blame for that. He hadn’t wanted to ask around at any place close to the school and he’d had to expand his radius when he kept getting turned down. The bar he finally got lucky at was far enough away that he really should have taken a train or some form of transportation, but he didn’t have any money on him.

So he walked.

And walked.

By the time he made it to the bar, he was ready to drop. It was called Walter’s and it was not the fanciest place. That was mostly because Bucky’d avoided even trying to enter the nicer looking places after being denied entrance to one and getting sneered at like he was some kind of flea-ridden stray dog. His clothes might not be new and expensive, but that didn’t mean he was dirty. He wasn’t homeless and he didn’t smell and he didn’t appreciate being treated like that.

Shaking his head a little at the memory, Bucky shoved open the door to the bar and stepped into the dimly-lit room. He scanned it quickly, then more thoroughly, and sighed when he didn’t see any sign of the lock pick guy.

There was absolutely no way he was walking home now, so Bucky trudged up to the bar and slumped onto one of the stools.

“What can I get ya?” the bartender asked instantly, eying him skeptically.

Bucky suppressed a grimace, hoping he wasn’t about to be kicked out. “I’m not here to drink. I’m looking for someone. I met him here a few days ago and I have to return what I borrowed.”

“I know most of the names who frequent this place,” the bartender said, still eying him. “Who are you looking for?”

Bucky shrugged tiredly. “I’ll know him when I see him.” Now that he was thinking about it, it might not have been the smartest move to tell the lock pick guy his name without getting one in return. He’d been a little desperate at the time after days of getting nothing but ‘no’ and ‘get outta here, kid’, but that was no excuse for being an idiot. And he told Steve off for being reckless.

“Well if you’re waiting, how about a coffee?” the bartender asked. He didn’t look happy about the situation, but at least he didn’t tell Bucky to scram. “If you pass out, you’re getting left out back like all the other drunks.”

That was a little harsh. “Maybe later,” Bucky said, not wanting to tell the bartender outright that he wasn’t going to be buying anything. He didn’t have a single penny on him right now.

So Bucky sat and waited, pinching himself every once in a while when started to drift off. It didn’t take long for the bartender to stop eying him and start ignoring him, but he didn’t hold it against the man. He wasn’t a paying customer and Bucky was just grateful he wasn't stuck shivering outside on the sidewalk.

“You’re back.”

Bucky sucked in a startled gasp and twisted around so fast his head spun.

Lock Pick Guy raised his eyebrows at him. “Late night?”

“No,” Bucky denied automatically. The man looked amused. “I have your stuff,” Bucky said, changing the subject before he got called out for lying.

“Follow me,” the guy said, turning and leaving Bucky to scramble off his stool and follow.

The man was taller than him and a good deal more muscular. In his late twenties, by Bucky’s best estimate, with dark hair and a permanent I-know-more-than-you expression on his face. It was irritating, but Bucky didn’t dare comment on it. There weren’t many people who made him feel small, not anymore, but this guy was one of them. Between his confidence, his size, and his obvious knowledge of not-so-law-abiding activities, Bucky was wary about getting on his bad side.

He led Bucky out the back door to a closed-off alley behind the bar. Every side was blocked by either a building or a tall wooden fence and it was more than a little claustrophobic. The only entrance/exit was the door they’d come through. Was this where the bartender had threatened to leave him if he passed out? He thought about waking up back here and suddenly the half-joking words felt a little more sinister.

“Hand ‘em over,” Lock Pick Guy ordered.

Bucky quickly fumbled to do as told and handed the lock picks over. He watched anxiously as the man looked them over, then nodded and tucked them away.

“What’s your name?” Bucky blurted out before he could stop himself.

“Manny,” the guy said, looking amused again. “And you, James Barnes, owe me a favor.”

Bucky’s stomach dropped as his heart thudded in his chest. “What?”

“Don’t worry,” Manny said, watching him with that infernal knowing expression. “I won’t be collecting it now.”

What did that mean? Bucky’s tired mind raced, but it felt stuttering and slow. He wished he’d waited until tomorrow to return the lock picks - this wasn’t the type of talk he wanted to have while only three quarters conscious and loopy with sleep deprivation - but it was too late to back out now.

“When will you?” Bucky asked cautiously. “And what kind of favor?”

“Nothing too bad, kid. You can stop looking at me like I’m asking you to skin a cat.”

“Sorry,” Bucky apologized, forcing a small smile onto his face. “I don’t have the best experience with owing people.”

“Does anyone?” Manny asked, thankfully looking amused again instead of insulted. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll find you when I need you.”

“Right,” Bucky said. That was ominous.

And then Manny led him back inside and through the bar to the front entrance. “I’ll see you around, James,” he said at the door, even politely holding it open for Bucky.

Bucky stepped outside and twisted around to give Manny a short wave. “See you around.”

Manny smiled at him and returned to the bar, and Bucky walked away from the bizarrely-friendly-yet-threatening interaction. He didn’t know what to think of the man. He didn’t know what to think about any of it. He was too tired for this.

He should have known there'd be a catch. Nobody who owned lock picks would just teach some random kid how to use them and let him borrow them for free. But unless he learned how to time travel, it was too late to go back and smack himself in the head for being an idiot. All he could do now was hope the price wasn’t higher than he was willing to pay.

There was always the possibility Manny would forget about him. Or that he was just messing with him and had no intention of actually tracking him down. All he had was a name and Bucky didn’t live anywhere close to the bar, so maybe he wouldn’t bother.

He was too tired to think about it right now.

Bucky dragged himself home and collapsed into bed. He was out in seconds.

***

It was dark when he next woke up and he immediately wished he hadn’t. His entire body ached with exhaustion, but his mouth was as dry as a desert and he really had to pee. He laid there for a few minutes hoping he’d fall back asleep, but it didn’t seem to be happening.

Groaning into his pillow, he clumsily shoved himself up and staggered out of bed. Everything was dark and quiet as he shuffled down the hall to the bathroom, which meant it was sometime in the middle of the night. He must have slept through dinner. He didn’t mind; he wasn’t hungry.

After going to the bathroom, he brushed his teeth and gulped down a glass of water. Then he crawled back into bed and passed out again.

***

“Bucky!”

Bucky scrunched his face up and pried an eye open. _Light,_ he registered, which meant school, which explained why his Ma was yelling his name in that annoyed tone she got when she’d already yelled his name more than once and he hadn’t answered.

Reluctantly rolling over, he started to sit up and promptly collapsed back down when the room tilted dizzily. _Nope,_ he thought, squeezing his eyes shut. _Not happening._ His head started to pound as if belatedly protesting the movement.

He pulled his blanket over his head to escape from the light glaring through his window and shivered. He’d disturbed his cozy little huddle of blankets when he tried to get up and now he was freezing. He hated winter.

His throat hurt when he swallowed, which was what finally clued him in.

He was sick.

God _dammit._ Fucking Steve making him stay up all night in the freezing cold and not even thanking him for it. Bucky whined into his pillow and curled up tighter, suddenly feeling ten times worse now that he was aware of the truth. He hated being sick. He never got sick. Steve was the one who always got sick, not him. He spitefully hoped Steve was sick too, then felt guilty because that was a horrible thing to wish on anybody, especially Steve.

“James Buchanan Barnes! Are you still in bed?” Winifred rapped sharply on his door.

“I’m-” Bucky croaked, then coughed and gave up. She’d figure it out.

Sure enough, his Ma swung the door open only seconds later. “Up,” she ordered. “I let you sleep through dinner, but you’ve been in bed long enough.”

Bucky gripped his blanket tighter, irrationally afraid she’d take it away from him. He made a sound of protest when she pulled it away from his head and touched his forehead with her hand.

“You have a fever,” she sighed.

Bucky squinted up at her. The light made his head feel like it was splitting in half. “No school,” he croaked.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Winifred said, frowning at him. “But I have to get the girls ready. Stay here.”

_Wasn’t planning on going anywhere,_ Bucky thought fuzzily as she left. The second she was gone, he pulled the blanket back over his head and closed his eyes. He was freezing.

***

Friday passed in a fevered blur. He didn’t get out of bed except to stagger down the hall every few hours to go to the bathroom, and once when his Ma decided to torture him by making his Dad force him into a bath about one degree above freezing. They kept insisting it was room temperature, but he wasn’t an idiot. Room temperature wasn’t cold enough to make his teeth chatter. He was just glad they let him keep his underpants on. He was about ten years too old for his Ma to be giving him a bath.

Saturday was both better and worse. His Ma was relieved because his fever was down (although not gone), but Bucky almost wished it would come back. Without the fever making everything hazy and dream-like, he was awake enough to feel every second of uncomfortable misery.

His body ached and his skin felt raw and hypersensitive. His head pounded, his throat hurt, he was constantly nauseous but never enough to make him sick, he couldn’t stop coughing… if this was how bad Steve felt every time he got sick, Bucky was going to feel way more sympathetic next time he was laid up in bed.

As if granting his wish, the fever returned that night with a vengeance and Bucky was treated to cold bath #2. It was even worse than he remembered. He had a blurry memory of cursing at his Ma and he couldn’t tell if it was a dream or not. He hoped it was.

Sunday was only marginally better.

On Monday, Bucky tried to get up to go to school, if only because he was bored of lying in bed, but sitting up and eating breakfast drained away all of his energy and he ended up back in bed, napping instead of walking to school. It was mildly humiliating.

On Tuesday, Bucky tried again to insist he was fine to go to school, only to find out it was eleven and he’d slept straight through breakfast. He pouted through lunch and stewed in boredom for the rest of the afternoon, then took a bath before the girls got home. He felt startlingly healthier without all the layers of dried sweat.

***

Wednesday morning, Bucky was wide awake bright and early. His nose was still a little stuffy, but he grinned at the ceiling when he sat up and felt otherwise okay.

Then he registered the dim orange light filtering through his window and flopped back down. He was up _too_ early. Way too early. Early enough to watch the sunrise, which meant he had at least half an hour before he had to even think about getting up.

He closed his eyes, hoping to get a few more winks of sleep, but his body was done with sleeping. He was practically buzzing with energy. And questions.

Would Steve be in school today? Would he apologize? Why hadn’t he stopped by when Bucky was sick? Unless he was sick too? Or were they just not friends anymore? Did Bucky still _want_ to be friends with him?

_Yes,_ he thought vehemently. He absolutely still wanted to be friends with Steve, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t angry. He wanted an apology from Steve and he thought he deserved one.

Starting to feel uncomfortably anxious for this early in the morning, Bucky rolled over and buried his face into his pillow. He stayed like that until his lungs started screaming for air, then he sucked in another breath and did it again.

Against his will, his mind went to the painting. He’d been doing an excellent job of not thinking about it so far, but his break was apparently over. As if sensing weakness, as soon as one thought slipped in, they all came rushing in.

The painting burst into color before his eyes. When he’d seen it the morning after the break in, it’d shocked him all over again with new details and colors he hadn’t been able to make out in the dark. The navy blue block letters, the bright red heart, and the two men kissing right in the center of it.

Did it mean anything that Steve put the men in the center or was it simply a coincidence? Was Steve a fairy? A queer?

Bucky pictured Steve kissing a guy, someone bigger and taller than him, and squirmed uncomfortably as a shiver ran down his spine. His stomach twisted with something that both was and wasn’t disgust. It was _wrong,_ so wrong, and so…

Bucky pressed his hips into the mattress and froze. His eyes flew wide, panicked.

It was morning. It was just because it was morning. It had nothing to do with what he was thinking about. He liked girls.

He liked girls. Dames. Women. He liked long hair, curves, and soft skin. He liked Lucille and Grace and he really liked Betty. She’d let him slip his hand up her skirt and- Bucky grinded his hips into his mattress and slid a hand down to palm himself. His heart slowly stopped hammering in his chest. He definitely liked girls.

And he needed to stop thinking about this. Either that or do something about it, but he wasn’t really feeling it. He was too distracted and frustrated and panicky.

_I like girls,_ Bucky thought firmly, rolling out of bed and grabbing a change of clothes. He resolutely ignored the heat between his legs and didn’t think about why.

_I like girls,_ he repeated as he washed his face and slicked his hair back. This was the second time in a week that he’d beat his sisters to the bathroom in the morning. That was a record.

He really had to stop thinking about it after that and switch to boring things like geography homework and baseball statistics. If he didn’t, he’d be walking out of the bathroom with a very obvious, very embarrassing problem and with his luck he’d run straight into his Ma or one of his sisters.

It was hard not to think about it though. Every time he let his mind wander it went to either the painting or the same repetitive sentence, over and over again.

_I like girls,_ he thought as he shoved a spoonful of cereal into his mouth. He almost rolled his eyes at himself. He wanted to tell his brain, _‘I got the point, okay? Gimme a break’._

“You sure you’re okay to go to school, James?” Winifred asked, running a hand over his forehead.

Bucky ducked his head away. “I’m fine, Ma, I swear.”

She frowned at him, then hurried off to deal with Eva and Anne. Eva had thrown up in the middle of the night and Anne woke up this morning with a fever. Normally Bucky would feel guilty as hell about getting them sick, but his mind was laser-focused on only one topic today. He’d feel guilty about it later.

_I like girls,_ he thought again as he walked out the front door. He did. He definitely did. There was nothing wrong with him. He wasn’t queer. He didn’t understand why he was trying so hard to convince himself of something he already knew for a fact was true. He absolutely, without a doubt, liked girls. Fact.

But what if Steve didn’t?

The thought popped into his head right as he was going down the front steps. He stumbled, flailing both physically and mentally, and before he could catch himself he was falling.

He landed on the sidewalk on his hands and knees, heart and lungs stuttering.

“Jesus, Bucky,” Becca said from behind him. “Are you sure you’re okay to go to school?”

“Yeah,” Bucky forced out a laugh and pushed himself up. “Good thing I was on the bottom step, huh?”

Becca just raised her eyebrows at him. “You need to talk to Steve.”

“What?” Bucky’s heart, barely starting to recover from the fall, started pounding again. “Why? Did he say something? Have you seen him? Is he sick?”

Becca’s eyebrows went impossibly higher. “He’s not sick, and yes, I’ve seen him. He’s been nagging me all week about _you._ He said the two of you fought and that’s why he wasn’t stopping by. He didn’t think you’d want to see him.”

“Oh,” Bucky said. Well, he hadn’t been wrong. Not really. He and Steve needed to talk and he wouldn’t have wanted to have that conversation while he was sick. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d talked to him?”

“He asked me not to,” Becca said, grabbing Bucky’s arm and starting to drag him down the sidewalk.

“Why?”

Becca threw him an exasperated look over her shoulder. “I don’t know. He wouldn’t say. What did you two argue about anyway?”

“Nothing,” Bucky said, a little too fast.

Becca slowed down to eye him suspiciously. “You’re acting strange,” she said. “Both of you are. You fight all the time, but never for this long.”

“I got sick,” Bucky said defensively.

“Well, you should fix it,” Becca told him. “He’s been looking like a kicked puppy for days. I keep wanting to go over and pat him on the head.”

Bucky snorted, knowing exactly what look she was talking about. “I’ll talk to him,” he said. He’d already been planning to, but that didn’t mean he was going to forgive Steve before he apologized. It didn’t matter how sad he looked, not this time.

They walked the rest of the way to the high school in silence, which unfortunately gave Bucky plenty of time to obsess over the questions circling his mind.

What if Steve didn’t like girls? What if he was queer? That would be… dangerous. People were already suspicious of him because of how he looked and Steve wasn’t exactly good at not drawing attention to himself. He didn’t need another way to get into trouble.

But that didn’t mean Bucky didn’t want to be friends with him anymore. He didn’t care who Steve kissed. Queer or not, he was still the same person. Right? It was… questionably legal and definitely immoral and against all sorts of rules, but since when did Bucky care about breaking rules? Or laws? He was pretty sure he’d done things objectively worse than kissing another man.

That thought hit him over the head like a thrown brick. Kissing another man. _Bucky_ kissing another man. Would it be different than kissing a girl? He imagined it would be rougher or scratchier, the hint of stubble on their face. Their body would be harder too, more solid, muscles instead of soft curves. They’d be stronger, more-

“Ow!” Bucky rubbed his arm and glared at Becca. “What was that for?”

“School?” Becca asked, giving him an incredulous look. “We’re going to be late. Unless you’re planning on standing on the sidewalk all day?”

Bucky blinked, realizing he must have stopped walking. “Right.” He was suddenly glad he was wearing a long winter coat. “Right,” he repeated. He shook his head, trying to banish even the memory of those images in his head.

_I like girls,_ he thought, again, as he started to walk. It was true. He needed to stop thinking about all this queer stuff. It was messing with his head.

***

Steve was avoiding him. It didn’t take Bucky long to figure that one out, and it was only reinforced by him not showing up to lunch at all.

For the first half of the day, Bucky was relieved. He wasn’t looking forward to talking to Steve and it was easy to avoid him if Steve avoided him back.

By the time school ended, his opinion had done a complete 180. As much as he hated the idea of it, they had to talk. They couldn’t keep avoiding each other, and more than that, he didn’t want to. He was mad at Steve, yes, but he didn’t want to stay mad forever.

He missed Steve, that was the thing. He missed his best pal. He even missed all the talk about politics (Okay, not quite, but almost).

As soon as his last class ended, he rushed to the front door in an effort to catch Steve before he bolted. He scanned the sidewalk in both directions and frowned a little when he didn’t see him anywhere. He hoped that meant Steve was still inside and not that he was already out of sight.

“Bucky.”

Bucky jumped and spun around. “Steve,” he said, and almost automatically smiled.

Steve didn’t smile. “Can we talk?”

“Yeah,” Bucky nodded, biting his lip as he spun away to face the sidewalk. Even though this was exactly what he’d planned, he was nervous about how it would go.

Steve brushed by him and started walking down the sidewalk to the left. In the opposite direction of both the orphanage and Bucky’s house. Bucky stared after him for a second, then shrugged and started to follow. He honestly didn’t care where they talked as long as it was somewhere private where he didn’t have to worry about being overheard.

Steve led him to a construction site. An abandoned construction site, judging by the amount of bottles and trash on the ground when Steve led him into the half-finished building. There were walls, but no roof, and partly-constructed walls in between that would have divided up the building into rooms.

For a long moment, Bucky was so focused on examining his surroundings that he forgot why they were here.

Then Steve said, “I’m sorry,” and it all came crashing down.

“You should be,” Bucky said automatically. It was mean, but he didn’t take it back.

Steve ducked his head a second before squaring his shoulders. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I shouldn’t have- I should’ve trusted you. I was just, I mean- Aw, hell.” Steve sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “I had a whole speech planned, I swear.”

Bucky huffed, reluctantly amused, but he swallowed back the urge to laugh the whole thing off and make a joke. He wasn’t going to make this easy for Steve. He raised an eyebrow and waited expectantly.

Steve pulled in a deep breath and nodded. “I had it all planned out, with the painting, but then I started thinking about how we’ve never talked about that kind of thing. The- the queer stuff. And I thought about what would happen if you didn’t agree and it… it made sense, you know? Most people think it’s wrong and why would you be any different? And- and, basically, I scared myself. I tried to convince you not to come and then you came anyway and- and I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that. I’ll understand if you don’t forgive me, or if you- I’ll understand.”

Steve ducked his head after he finished, hunching his shoulders like he was preparing to be hit.

Bucky rolled his eyes, and just like that the anger melted away. “You’re a punk, you know that? And a jerk. And I _should_ hit you, but that sort of made sense. And of course I forgive you. Like this is the dumbest thing you’ve ever done?”

Steve looked up and smiled so tentatively that Bucky couldn’t help but smile back. “So, we’re good?” Steve asked.

“Well,” Bucky paused deliberately, making Steve nervous. “You still haven’t apologized for punching me.”

Steve blew out a relieved breath. “You deserved that one, you jerk.”

Bucky grinned. “Sorry?” he offered.

“Yeah, you sound so apologetic,” Steve said dryly.

“Hey, I’d just spent a whole week making nice with a bunch of people I wanted to punch in the face. Excuse me for being a little tense.”

Steve frowned, then nodded. “Yeah, okay. I’m sorry for punching you in the face.

Bucky hadn’t actually meant for him to apologize for that. “And I’m sorry for making you punch me in the face.”

Steve huffed and shook his head. “Apologies over?”

Bucky let out an exaggerated sigh of relief. “ _Yes._ Thank God. Can we stop talking about feelings now?”

“What? Are you allergic?” Steve asked, finally relaxing enough to actually smile.

“Yes,” Bucky said, pretending to scratch his arm. “I feel all itchy now.” Then, before Steve could respond, he added, “Actually, before we change the subject I have a question.” Steve instantly looked nervous, but Bucky barreled on before he could chicken out. “The painting. Does that mean- Are you..?”

“I like girls,” Steve said, unknowingly repeating Bucky’s new mantra, “if that’s what you’re asking. Not that it matters, since none of them want anything to do with me.”

Bucky frowned and pushed away the confusing mix of relief and disappointment he felt at Steve’s answer. He’d been all mentally prepared to accept Steve no matter what and it felt… anti-climactic to find out it’d all been for nothing.

“Not all girls care so much about appearances,” Bucky said, addressing the second half of Steve’s statement. “You’re a great guy, Steve. They’ll figure that out. And it’s not like you’re ugly.” Just small.

“Sure,” Steve said, and Bucky could tell he was just agreeing to appease him. He almost started to argue the point, but they’d just finished the last argument and he wasn’t ready to start a new one.

“So if you’re not… if you like girls, why do the painting at all?” Bucky asked, returning to the first point. “It was _dangerous._ If we’d been caught… It’s not like it was easy. Just, why go through all that effort if it doesn’t even matter?”

Steve scowled. “It doesn’t matter?”

“That’s not-” _what I meant,_ Bucky didn’t get to finish.

“Of course it matters,” Steve argued, gesturing sharply. “Nobody should be looked down on for who they love. If they’re not hurting anyone, then why should they be condemned for it? People are _beaten to death_ for getting caught kissing the wrong person, Bucky. It matters.”

“That’s not-” Bucky fumbled for the right words, confused and taken aback by Steve’s vehemence. “The church says it’s wrong.”

Steve clammed up at that, closing his mouth and glaring at the ground.

He’d obviously said the wrong thing, but he wasn’t sure what the right thing to say was. He wasn’t sure if a correct response to that even existed. “I mean, it matters,” Bucky said awkwardly. “I’m not arguing that. People being beaten to death, that’s wrong. Even if they’re- Well, I didn’t mean it like _that._ I just meant… Why’s it matter so much to _you?”_

Steve looked up to glare at him, but now that Bucky’d started talking he couldn’t seem to stop.

“Making that painting was _dangerous,_ Steve. And people being beaten to death is wrong, yeah, but that doesn’t mean _you_ should risk being beaten to death too.”

“Why not?” Steve demanded.

“What do you mean _why not?”_ Bucky stared at Steve incredulously. “You said you like girls!”

“It’s not like I’m going to live that long anyway!” Steve burst out.

The silence that followed Steve’s words was deafening. Bucky stared at Steve and Steve stared at Bucky and neither of them spoke. Steve’s life expectancy was one of those topics they just didn’t talk about. They both knew that with Steve’s health the way it was the chances of him growing old were nearly non-existent, that there was always a possibility he wouldn’t live through the next winter. They both knew that. They didn’t talk about it.

“That doesn’t mean you should try to get yourself killed, Steve,” Bucky finally said, quiet at first, but getting gradually louder with each word. “It’s not an excuse to be as reckless as you want!”

Instead of calming down, Steve only looked angrier. “I know you’ve seen the signs. You know what they say about people like me. _‘Some people are born to be a burden on the rest’._ Maybe I just want to do something good before I die. You ever think about that?”

“ _Do something good?_ Steve, you’re the best person I’ve ever met! You help people all the time. You’re not a fucking burden on society! Those signs are bullshit and you know it. You’re just using that as an excuse to take risks-”

“The doctor says I’ll be lucky if I make it to eighteen,” Steve interrupted.

Bucky stared at him.

“A few months ago, I stood up too fast and passed out,” Steve admitted. “Sister Catherine called a doctor, who said I’m anemic. He also said my heart’s not beating right. An arrhythmia. He’s pretty sure I have heart damage, most likely from the scarlet fever or the rheumatic fever. I’ve had both and both can cause it, so it coulda been either.”

“Maybe he’s wrong,” Bucky said, trying to sound confident instead of desperate. “The scarlet fever was years ago, and the other one was before I even met you, so if it hasn’t killed you yet then who says it will?”

“He’s not wrong,” Steve said, flattening a palm against his chest. “Sometimes I get chest pains. I never mentioned it ‘cause I was hoping it would go away, but sometimes I can _feel_ my heart skipping beats. It hasn’t gotten worse, but-”

“You’re not dying, Steve!” Bucky interrupted, half a demand, half just plain terrified. “You said it yourself- it hasn’t gotten worse. And when you were younger didn’t the doctors tell your Ma you wouldn’t make it through the winter _every single year?”_

“Yeah, but-”

“You’re not dying, so stop talking like you are,” Bucky ordered. “And you’re not allowed to take stupid risks.”

“It wasn’t st-”

“Shut up,” Bucky cut him off again. “There’s plenty of ways to help people that don’t come with the risk of being beaten to death. You can’t help anybody if you’re dead.”

Steve’s face was starting to turn red with the frustration of Bucky not letting him talk, so Bucky nicely gestured that it was his turn to speak.

Steve opened his mouth, then closed it. Now that he had a chance to speak, he looked like he didn’t know what to say. “Fine,” he finally said. “I won’t take any unnecessary risks, but I’m not going to stop doing what’s right just because it might be dangerous.”

Bucky couldn’t not roll his eyes at that. “So, back to normal?”

Steve smiled a little tentatively. “Yeah.”

Bucky punched him in the arm, hard enough to make him stagger. “And if you hide any more potentially life-threatening health problems from me ever again, I’ll kill you myself.”

_‘Ow,’_ Steve mouthed, rubbing his arm. “That’s fair,” he admitted. “If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t tell my Ma either.”

“That does _not_ make me feel better, Steve. In what world would that make me feel better?”

 

 

 


End file.
